The first thing he did was to unwind his long turban from his neck, and cut it in two.  Two-thirds he twisted round his waist, the other he made fast to one of the little red stone pillars of the balcony.  It hung straight and black down into the shadows of the pipal-tree.  Then, very gradually and cautiously, Sunni slipped over the balcony’s edge and let himself down, down, till he reached a branch thick enough to cling to.  The turban was none too long, the branches at the top were so slender.  Just as he grasped a thick one, clutching it with both arms and legs, and swaying desperately in the dark, he felt a rush of wings across his face, and a great white owl flew out hooting in her panic.  The boy almost missed his catch with fear, and the Maharajah, wakeful in his apartments, lost another good hour’s sleep through hearing the owl’s cry.  It was the worst of omens, the Maharajah believed, and sometimes he believed it with less reason.

As quickly as he dared, Sunni let himself down branch by branch till he reached the level of the wall.  Presently he stood upon it in the subsiding rustle of the leaves, breathless and trembling..  He seemed to have disturbed every living thing within a hundred yards.  A score of bats flew up from the wall crevices, a flying fox struck him on the shoulder, at his feet something black and slender twisted away into a darker place.  Sunni stood absolutely still, gradually letting go his hold upon the pipal twigs.  Presently everything was as it had been before, except for the little dark motionless figure on the wall; and the south wind was bringing across the long, shrill, mournful howls of the jackals that plundered the refuse of the British camp half a mile away.

Then Sunni lay down flat on the top of the wall, and began to work himself with his hands and feet towards the nearest embrasure.  An old cannon stood in this, and threatened with its wide black mouth any foe that should be foolish enough to think of attacking the fort from the river.  This venerable piece of ammunition had not been fired for ten years, and would burst to a certainty if it were fired now; but as nobody had ever dreamed of attacking Lalpore from the river that didn’t particularly matter.  When Sunni reached it, he crouched down in its shadow—­the grayness behind the palms was spreading—­and took the rest of his turban cloth from his waist.  Then he took off his coat, and began to unwind a rope from his body—­a rope made up of all sorts of ends, thick and thin, long and short, and pieced out with leather thongs.  Sunni was considerably more comfortable when he had divested himself of it.  He tied the rope and the turban cloth together, and fastened the rope end to the old gun’s wheel.  He looked over for a second—­no longer—­but it was too dark to tell how far down the face of the thirty-foot wall his ragged contrivance hung.  It was too dark as well to see whether the water rippled against the wall or not; but Sunni knew that the river was low.  As a matter of fact he had only about five feet to drop, and he went very comfortably into a thick bed of wet sand.  Nor was anything known of his going in Lalpore until daybreak, when one of the palace sweepers found the end of a blue and gold turban flapping about the south balcony; and Moti, who often went early to tell his dreams to Sunni, brought the Maharajah a parcel.