Cunningham, after fossicking for a long time in Aliva’s armory—­that contained, besides weapons of the date, a motley assortment of the tools of war that would have done great credit to a museum of antiquities—­produced two pistols.  He handed, one to the missionary and one to Miss McClean, advising her to hide hers underneath her clothing.  “You know what they’re for?” he asked.  “No.  You’d gain nothing by putting up a fight.  They’re loaded.  All you’ve got to do is jerk the hammer back and pull the trigger, and the best way not to miss is to hold the muzzle underneath your chin—­this way—­keeping the butt well out from you.  You make sure when you do that.  The only satisfaction you’ll have, if it comes to suicide as a last resource, will be that you’ve tried to do your duty and the knowledge that you’ll be avenged.  I promise that.  But I don’t think you’ll have any need to do it—­if I did think it I’d have thought twice before sending you.”

“How does such a very young man as you come to have all this responsibility?” asked Rosemary, taking the pistol without a shudder.  She laughed then as she noticed Cunningham’s discomfort and recognized the decency that hates to talk about itself.

“I suppose I know my own mind,” he answered.  “These other awfully decent fellows don’t, that’s all—­if you except Mahommed Gunga.  That chap’s a wonder.  ’Pon my soul, it seems he knew this was coming and picked me from the start to take charge over here.  Seems, owing to my dad’s reputation, these Rangars think me a sort of reincarnation of efficiency.  I’ve got to try and live up to it, you know—­same old game of reaping what you didn’t sow and hoping it’ll all be over before you wake up!  Won’t you try and get some sleep before morning?  No?  Come and sit over by the parapet with me, then.”

He carried chairs for both of them to a point whence he could sit and watch the track that led to Howrah and so help out the very meagre garrison.  There, until the waning moon dipped down below the sky-line, they talked together—­first about the task ahead of each of them; then about the sudden ghastliness of the rebellion, whose extent not one of them could really grasp as yet; last, and much longest, as familiarity gradually grew between them, of youthful reminiscences and home—­of Eton and the Isle of Skye.

In the darkness and the comparative coolness that came between the setting of the moon and dawn Rosemary fell asleep, her head pillowed in her father’s lap.  For a while, then, seeing her only dimly through the night, but conscious, as he could not help being, of her youth and charm and of the act of self-sacrifice that she had undertaken without remonstrance, he felt ashamed.  He began to wonder whether there might not have been some other way—­whether he had any right, even for his country’s sake, to send a girl on such a mission.  Misgiving began to sap his optimism, and there was no Mahommed Gunga to stir the soldier in him and encourage iron-willed pursuance of the game.  He began to doubt; and doubt bred silence.