So Byng intrenched himself on the gradual rise, and sent out as many messengers as he could spare to bring reinforcements from whatever source obtainable.  Then, when almost none came, he got ready to die where he stood, using all the soldier gift he had to put courage into the last-ditch loyalists who offered to die with him.  He had counted most on aid from Cunningham and Mahommed Gunga, but that source seemed to have failed him; and he gave up hope of their arrival when a body of several thousand rebels took up position on his flank and cut off approach from the direction whence Cunningham should come.

The sun blazed down like molten hell on sick and wounded.  Rotting carcasses of horses and cattle, killed by the rebels’ artillery-fire, lay stenching here and there, and there was no possibility of disposing of them.  A day came very soon, indeed, when horse, or occasional transport bullock, was all there was to eat, and a night came when Govind Singh, the leader of the Sikhs, came to him and remonstrated.

The old man had to be carried to Byng’s tent, for a round shot had disabled him, and he had himself set down by the tent-door, where the General sat on a camp-stool.

“General-sahib, I have not been asked for advice; I am here to offer it.”

The huge black dome of heaven was punctuated by a billion dots of steely white that looked like pin-pricks.  All the light there was came from the fitful watch-fires, where even the wagons were being burned now that the meagre supply of rough timber was giving out.  The rebels, too, were burning everything on which they could lay their hands, and from between the spaced-out glow of their bonfires came ever and again the spurt of cannon-flame.

“Speak, Govind Singh!”

“Sahib, we have no artillery with which to answer them.  We have no food; and the supply of ammunition wanes.  Shall we die here like cattle in a slaughter-house?”

“This is as good as any other place” said Byng.

“Nay, sahib!” “How, then?”

“In their lines is a better place!  Here is nothing better than a shambles, with none but our men falling.  They know that our food is giving out—­they know that we lose heavily—­they wait.  They will wait for days yet before they close in to finish what their guns have but begun, and—­then—­how many will there be to die desperately, as is fitting?”

“We might get reinforcements in the morning, Govind Singh.”

“And again, we might not, sahib!”

“I sent a number of messengers before we were shut in.”

“Yes, sahib—­and to whom?  To men who would ask you to reinforce them if they could get word to you!  Tomorrow our rear will be surrounded, too; they have laid planks across the little streams behind us, and are preparing to drag guns to that side, too.  Now, sahib, we have fire left in us.  We can smite yet, and do damage while we die.  Tomorrow night may find us decimated and without heart for the finish.  I advise you to advance at dawn, sahib!”