“Do not let us quarrel,” said Desmond.  “We are all brothers in misfortune; we ought to be as close knit as the strands of a rope.  Here is our brother Fuzl Khan, the only man of his gang who did not try to escape, and see how he is treated!  Could he be worse misused?  Would not death be a boon?

“Is it not so, Fuzl Khan?”

The Gujarati assented with a passionate cry.

“As for the rest of us, it is only a matter of time.  I am the youngest of you, and not the hardest worked, yet I feel that the strain of our toil is wearing me out.  What must it be with you?  You are dying slowly.  If we make an attempt to escape and fail we shall die quickly, that is all the difference.  What is to be is written, is it not so, Shaik Abdullah?”

“Even so, sahib,” replied the second Biluchi, “it is written.  Who can escape his fate?”

“And what do you say, Surendra Nath?”

“The key, sahib,” whispered the Babu in English; “what of the key?”

“Speak in Urdu, Babu,” said Desmond quickly.  “Don’t agree at once.”

Surendra Nath was quick witted; he perceived that Desmond did not wish the others to suspect that there had been any confidences between them.

“I am a coward, the sahib knows,” he said in Urdu.  “I could not give blows; I should die.  It was told us today that the English are about to attack this fort.  They will set us free; we need run no risks.”

“Wah!” exclaimed one of the Mysoreans.  “If the Firangi get into the fort, we shall all be murdered.”

“That is truth,” said a Maratha.  “The Rho would have our throats cut at once.”

The Babu groaned.

“You see, Surendra Nath, it is useless to wait in the hope of help from my countrymen,” said Desmond.  “If there is fighting to be done, we can do all that is needed:  is it not so, my brothers?  As for you, Babu, if you would sooner die without—­well, there is nothing to prevent you.”

“If the sahib does not wish me to fight, it is well.  But has the sahib a plan?”

“Yes, I have a plan.”

He paused; there was sound of hard breathing.

“Tell it us,” said the Gujarati eagerly.

“You are one of us, Fuzl Khan?”

“The plan! the plan!  Is not my back mangled?  Have I not endured the tank? 
Is not freedom sweet to me as to another?  The plan, sahib!  I swear, I
Fuzl Khan, to be true to you and all; only tell me the plan.”

“You shall have the plan in good time.  First I have a thing to say.  When a battle is to be fought, no soldier fights only for himself, doing that which seems good to him alone.  He looks to the captain for orders.  Otherwise mistakes would be made, and all effort would be wasted.  We must have a captain:  who is he to be?”

“Yourself, sahib,” said the Gujarati at once.  “You have spoken; you have the plan; we take you as leader.”

“You hear what Fuzl Khan says.  Do you all agree?”