He had to laugh presently at the absurdity of that notion, for Jaimihr would never have bargained for possession of a sour-faced, elderly woman.  He came to the conclusion that the only thing he could do was to congratulate the Raj because, at the right minute, the right good-looking woman had been on the spot!  But he did not like the circumstances any better; and before two hours had passed the loneliness began to eat into his soul.

Like any other man whose race and breed and training make him self-dependent, he could be alone for weeks on end and scarcely be aware that he had nobody to talk to.  But his training had never yet included sending women off on dangerous missions any more than it had taught him to resist woman’s attraction—­the charm of a woman’s voice, the lure of a woman’s eyes.  He did not know what was the matter with him, but supposed that his liver must be out of order or else that the sun had touched him.

Taking a chance on the liver diagnosis, he had out the attenuated garrison, and drilled it, both mounted and dismounted, first on the hilltop—­where they made the walls re-echo to the clang of grounded butts—­and then on the plain below, with the gate wide open in their rear and one man watching from the height above.  When he had tired them thoroughly, and himself as well, he set two men on the lookout and retired to sleep; nor did the droning and the wailing music of some women in the harem trouble him.

They called him regularly when the guard was changed, but he slept the greater part of that day and stood watch all night.  The next day, and the third day, he drilled the garrison again, growing horribly impatient and hourly more worried as to what Byng-bahadur might be doing, and thinking of him.

It was evening of the fourth day when a Rangar woke him, squeezing at his foot and standing silent by the cot.

“Huzoor—­Mahommed Gunga comes!”

“Thank God!”

He ran to the parapet and watched in the fading light a little dust cloud that followed no visible track but headed straight toward them over desert.

“How d’you know that’s Mahommed Gunga?” he demanded.

“Who else, huzoor?  Who else would ride from that direction all alone and straight for this nest of wasps?  Who else but Alwa or Mahommed Gunga?  Alwa said he would not come, but would wait yonder.”

“It might be one of Alwa’s men.”

“We have many good men, sahib—­and many good horses—­but no man or horse who could come at that pace after traversing those leagues of desert!  That is Mahommed Gunga, unless a new fire-eater has been found.  And what new man would know the way?”

Soon—­staccato, like a drum-beat in the silence—­came the welcome, thrilling cadence of the horse’s hoofs—­the steady thunder of a horse hard-ridden but not foundered.  The sun went down and blackness supervened, but the sound increased, as one lone rider raced with the evening wind, head on.