So Cunningham, still saying nothing, drew back into an easy canter.  He was conscious of something, not at all like a trumpet, in his throat that was nearly choking him.  He did not care to let Mahommed Gunga know that what was being mistaken for masterly silence was really emotion!  He did not speak because he did not trust his voice.

“There are three squadrons, sahib—­each of about five hundred men.  Alwa has the right wing, I the left.  Take thou the centre and command the whole.  The horses are as good as any in this part of India, for each man has brought his best to do thee honor.  Each man carries four days’ rations in his saddle-bag and two days’ rations for his horse.  More horse feed is collecting, and they are bringing wagons, to follow when we give the word.  But we thought there would be little sense in ordering wagons to follow us to Howrah City, knowing that thy plan would surely entail action.  If we are to ride to the aid of Byng-bahadur it seemed better to pick up the wagons on the journey back again.  That is all, sahib.  There will be no time, of course, to waste on talk or drill.  Take charge the moment that we get there—­issue thy orders—­and trust to the men understanding each command.  Lead off without delay.”

“All right,” said Cunningham—­two English words that went much further to allay the Risaldar’s anxiety than any amount of rhetoric would have done.  “But—­d’you mean to tell me that the men don’t understand words of command?”

“All of them do, sahib—­but to many of them the English words are new.  They all understand formations, and those who know the English words are teaching the others while they wait for us.  There is not one man among them but has couched a lance or swung a sabre in some force or other?”

“Good.  Have they all got lances?”

“All the front-rank men are armed with lance and sabre—­the rear ranks have sabres only.”

“Good.”

After two hours of steady cantering the going changed and became a quick succession of ever-deepening gorges cleft in sandstone.  Far away in the distance to the left there rose a glow that showed where Howrah City kept uneasy vigil, doubtless with watch-fires at every street corner.  It looked almost as though the distant city were in flames.

Ahead of them lay the gloom of hell mouth and the silence of the space beyond the stars.

It was with that strange, unclassified, unnamed sixth sense that soldiers, savages, and certain hunters have that Cunningham became aware of life ahead of him—­massed, strong-breathing, ready—­ waiting life, spring-bent in the quivering blackness.  A little farther, and he caught the ring of a curb-chain.  Then a horse whinnied and a hoarse voice swore low at a restive charger.  His own mare neighed, throwing her head high, and some one challenged through the dead-black night.

“How-ut!  Hukkums—­thar!”

A horseman appeared suddenly from nowhere, and examined them at close quarters instead of waiting for their answer.  He peered curiously at Cunningham—­glanced at Mahommed Gunga—­then wheeled, spinning his horse as the dust eddies twist in the sudden hot-wind gusts.