She knew that he would have killed a thousand men for her with equal generosity and equal disregard of what she thought was right, and she did not doubt that he would think himself both justified and worthy of renown for doing it.  She could have begged his release that minute, had she thought for an instant that Alwa would consent, and but for Cunningham.  She had grown aware of Cunningham’s gray eyes, staring straight at her—­summing her up—­reading her.  And she became conscious of the fact that she had met a man whose leave she would like to ask before deciding to act.

The mental acknowledgment brought relief for a few seconds.  She was tired.  The woman in here went out to the man in Cunningham, and she welcomed a protector.  Then the Scots blood raced to the assistance of the woman, and she bridled instantly.  Who, then, was this chance-met jackanapes, that she should lean on him or look to him for guidance?

The rebellion that had made her disobey her father back in Howrah City —­the spirit that had kept her in Howrah City and had given Jaimihr back cool stare for stare—­rallied her to resist—­to ridicule—­to rival Cunningham’s pretensions.  He saw her flush beneath his gaze, and turned away to where Mahommed Gunga watched from the parapet.

The leaders of Jaimihr’s calvary were arguing.  They could be seen gathered together out of rifle-shot but in full view of Alwa’s rock, and from their gestures they seemed to be considering the feasibility of an attack.

But it needed no warrior—­it needed less even than ordinary intelligence—­to know that as few as forty men could hold that fastness against two thousand.  Eight hundred would have no chance against it.  Even two thousand would need engineers, and ordnance, as well as plans.

Presently half of the little army rode away, back toward Howrah City, and the other half proceeded to bivouac where they could watch the iron-shuttered entrance and cut off the little garrison from all communication or assistance.

“We might as well resume our conference,” suggested Alwa, with the courtly air of a man just arisen from a chair.  No one who had not seen him ride would have dreamed that he was fresh from snatching a prisoner at the bottom of a neck-breaking defile.  Cunningham nodded acquiescence and followed him, turning to stare again at Miss McClean before he strode away with long, even strides that had a reassuring effect on any one who watched him.  She bridled again, and blushed.  But she experienced the weird sensation of being read right through before Mahommed Gunga contrived adroitly to step into the line of view and so let Cunningham’s attention fix itself on something else.  The Risaldar had made up his mind that love was inopportune just then; and he was a man who left no stone unturned—­no point unwatched—­when he had sensed a danger.  This might be danger and it might not be; so he watched.  Cunningham was conscious of the sudden interruption of a train of thought, but he was not conscious of deliberate interference.