The sentry trudged off in one direction, and Bill Brown in another.  The sentry concealed itself behind a rock that flanked the road, and Brown spent the next few minutes in making the guard “port arms,” and carefully inspecting their weapons with the aid of a lantern.  He had already inspected there once since supper, but he knew the effect that another inspection would be likely to produce.  Nothing goes further toward making men careful and ready at the word than incessant and unexpected but quite quietly performed inspection of minutest details.

He produced the effect of setting the men on the qui vive without alarming them.

Suddenly, the farthest advanced sentry’s challenge rang out.

“Frie-e-e-e-nd!” came the answer, in nasal, high-pitched wail, but the galloping continued.

“Halt, I tell you!” A breech-bolt clicked, and then another one.  They were little sounds, but they were different, and the guard could hear them plainly.  The galloping horse came on.

“Cra-a-a-a-ack!” went the sentry’s rifle, and the flash of it spurted for an instant across the road, like a sheet of lightning.  And, just as lightning might, it showed an instantaneous vision of a tired gray horse, foam-flecked and furiously ridden, pounding down the road head-on.  The vision was blotted by the night again before any one could see who rode the horse, or what his weapons were—­if any—­or form a theory as to why he rode.

But the winging bullet did what the sentry’s voice had failed to do.  There came a clatter of spasmodic hoof-beats, an erratic shower of sparks, a curse in clean-lipped decent Urdu; a grunt, a struggle, more sparks again, and then a thud, followed by a devoutly worded prayer that Allah, the all-wise provider of just penalties, might blast the universe.

“Stop talkin’!” said the sentry, and a black-bearded Rajput rolled free, and looked up to find a bayonet-point within three inches of his eye.

“Poggul!” snarled the Mohammedan.

“Poggul’s no password!” said the sentry.  “Neither to my good-nature nor to nothing else.  Put up your ’ands, and get on your feet, and march!  Look alive, now!  Call me a fool, would yer?  Wait till the sergeant’s through with yer, and see!”

The Rajput chose to consider a retort beneath his dignity.  He rose, and took one quick look at the horse, which was still breathing.

“Your bayonet just there,” he said, “and press.  So he will die quickly.”

The sentry placed his bayonet-point exactly where directed, and leaned his weight above it.  The horse gave a little shudder, and lay still.

“Poggul!” said the Rajput once again.  And this time the sentry looked and saw cold steel within three inches of his eye!

“Your rifle!” said the Rajput.  “Hand it here!”

And, to save his eyesight, the sentry complied, while the Rajput’s ivory-white teeth grinned at him pleasantly.