“And Jaimihr wants the throne—­and Howrah wants to send a force against the British, but dare not move because of Jaimihr—­I have Mahommed Gunga and five or six men to depend on—­the Rangars are sitting on the fence—­and the government has its hands full!  The lookout’s bright!  I think I see the way through!”

“You are forgetting me.”  The missionary spread his broad stooped shoulders.  “I am a missionary first, but next to that I have my country’s cause more at heart than anything.  I place myself under your orders, Mr. Cunningham.”

“I too,” said Miss McClean.  She was looking at him keenly as he gazed away into nothing through slightly narrowed eyes.  Vaguely, his attitude reminded her of a picture she had once seen of the Duke of Wellington; there was the same mastery, the same far vision, the same poise of self-contained power.  His nose was not like the Iron Duke’s, for young Cunningham’s had rather more tolerance in its outline and less of Roman overbearing; but the eyes, and the mouth, and the angle of the jaw were so like Wellesley’s as to force a smile.  “A woman isn’t likely to be much use in a case like this—­but, one never knows.  My country comes first.”

“Thanks,” he answered quietly.  And as he turned his head to flash one glance at each of them, she recognized what Mahommed Gunga had gloated over from the first—­the grim decision, that will sacrifice all—­ take full responsibility—­and use all means available for the one unflinching purpose of the game in hand.  She knew that minute, and her father knew, that if she could be used—­in any way at all—­he would make use of her.

“Go ahead!” she nodded.  “I’ll obey!”

“And I will not prevent!” said Duncan McClean, smiling and straightening his spectacles.

Cunningham left them and walked over to the parapet, where the whole garrison was bending excitedly now above the battlement.  There were more than forty men, most of them clustered near Alwa and Mahommed Gunga.  Mahommed Gunga was busy counting.

“Eight hundred!” he exclaimed, as Cunningham drew near.

“Eight hundred what, Mahommed Gunga?  Come and see, sahib.”

Cunningham leaned over, and beheld a mounted column, trailing along the desert road in wonderfully good formation.

“Where are they from?” he asked.

“Jaimihr’s men, from Howrah!”

“That means,” growled Alwa, “that the Hindoo pig Jaimihr has more than half the city at his back.  He has left behind ten men for every one he brings with him—­sufficient to hold Howrah in check.  Otherwise he would never have dared come here.  He hopes to settle his little private quarrel with me first, before dealing with his brother!  Who told him, I wonder, that I was pledged to Howrah?”

“He reckons he has caught thee napping in this fort of thine!” laughed Mahommed Gunga.  “He means to bottle up the Rangars’ leader, and so checkmate all of them!”