“Send for the Sikh!” commanded Cunningham.

Five minutes later, with a lump of native bread still in his fist, Jaidev Singh walked up and saluted.

“Where is Byng-bahadur now?” asked Cunningham.

“At Deeseera, sahib—­not shut in altogether, but hard pressed.  There came cholera, and Byng-bahadur camped outside the town.  He has been striking, sahib, striking hard with all too few to help him.  His irregulars, sahib, were disbanded at some one’s orders just before this outbreak, but some of them came back at word from him.  And there were some of us Sikhs who knew him, and who would rather serve him and die than fight against him and live.  He has now two British regiments with him, sadly thinned—­some of my people, some Goorkhas, some men from the North—­not very many more than two thousand men all told, having lost heavily in action and by disease.  But word is going round from mouth to mouth that many sahibs have been superseded, and that only real sahibs such as Byng-bahadur have commands in this hour.  Byng-bahadur is a man of men.  We who are with him begin to have courage in our bones again.  Is the answer ready?  Yet a little while?  It is well, sahib, I will rest.  Salaam!”

“You see,” said Cunningham, “the situation’s desperate.  We’ve got to act.  Alwa here stands pledged to protect Howrah and you have promised to aid Jaimihr.  Somebody’s word has got to break, and you may take it from me that it will be the word of the weakest man!  I think that that man is Jaimihr, but I can’t be sure in advance, and we’ve got to accept his promise to begin with.  Go to him, Miss McClean, and make a very careful bargain with him along the line I mapped out for you.  Alwa-sahib, I want witnesses, or rather overhearers.  I want you and Mahommed Gunga to place yourselves near Jaimihr’s cell so that you can hear what he says.  There won’t be any doubt then about who has broken promises.  Are you ready, Miss McClean?”

She was trembling, but from excitement and not fear.  Both Rajputs saluted her as she started back for the cell, and whatever their Mohammedan ideas on women may have been, they chose to honor this one, who was so evidently one of them in the hour of danger.  Duncan McClean seemed to be praying softly, for his lips moved.

When the cell-door creaked open, Alwa and Mahommed Gunga were crouched one on either side, listening with the ears of soldiers that do not let many sounds or words escape them.

“Jaimihr-sahib!” she whispered.  “Jaimihr-sahib!”

“Ha!  Sahiba!” Then he called her by half a dozen names that made the listening Rangars grin into their beards.

“Jaimihr-sahib”—­she raised her voice a little now—­“if I help you to escape, will you promise me my safety under all conditions?”

“Surely, sahiba!”

“Do you swear to protect every living person on this hill, including the Alwa-sahib and Cunningham-sahib?”