One night, when his eight companions were all asleep, and nothing could be heard but the regular calls of the sentries, the beating of tom toms in the town, and the howls of jackals prowling in the outskirts, Desmond gently woke the Babu.

“My friend, listen,” he whispered, “I have something to say to you.”

Surendra Nath turned over in his charpoy.

“Speak soft, I pray,” he said.

“My head is on fire,” continued Desmond.  “I cannot sleep.  I have been thinking.  What is life worth to us?  Can anything be worse than our present lot?  Do you ever think of escape?”

“What good, sir?  I have said so before.  We are fettered; what can we do?  There is but one thing that all men in our plight desire; that is death.”

“Nonsense!  I do not desire death.  This life is hateful, but while we live there is something to hope for, and I for one am not content to endure lifelong misery.  I mean to escape.”

“It is easy to say, but the doing—­that is impossible.”

“How can we tell that unless we try?  The men who tried to escape did not think it impossible.  They might have succeeded—­who can say?—­if Fuzl Khan had not betrayed them.”

“And he is still with us.  He would betray us again.”

“I am not sure of that.  See what he has suffered!  Today his whole body must have writhed with pain.  But for the majum {a preparation of hemp} he has smoked and the plentiful ghi {clarified butter} we rubbed him with, he would be moaning now.  I think he will be with us if we can only find out a way.  You have been here longer than I; can not you help me to form a plan?”

“No, sahib; my brain is like running water.  Besides, I am afraid.  If we could get rid of our fetters and escape we might have to fight.  I cannot fight; I am not a man of war; I am commercial.”

“But you will help me if I can think of a plan?”

“I cannot persuade myself to promise, sahib.  It is impossible.  Death is the only deliverer.”

Desmond was impatient of the man’s lack of spirit.  But he suffered no sign of his feeling to escape him.  He had grown to have a liking for the Babu.

“Well, I shall not give up the idea,” he said.  “Perhaps I shall speak of it to you again.”

Two nights later, in the dark and silent hours, Desmond reopened the matter.  This time the conversation lasted much longer, and in the course of it the Babu became so much interested and indeed excited that he forgot his usual caution, and spoke in a high-pitched tone that woke the Biluchi on the other side.  The man hurled abuse at the disturber of his repose, and Surendra Nath regained his caution and relapsed into his usual soft murmur.  Desmond and he were still talking when the light of dawn stole into the shed; but though neither had slept, they went about their work during the day with unusual briskness and lightness of heart.

That evening, after the prisoners had eaten their supper in their respective eating rooms, they squatted against the outer wall of the shed for a brief rest before being locked up for the night.  The Babu had promised to tell a story.  The approaches to the yard were all guarded by the usual sentries, and in the distance could be heard the clanking of the warder’s keys as he went from shed to shed performing his nightly office.