It would have been a fine chance to be theatrical, had play-acting been in his line.  Many and many a full-blown general has risen to authority and fame by means of absolutely useless gallery-play.  He believed that he would presently be relieved by General Baines, who he felt sure would march at once on Jailpore; and had he chosen to he could have addressed the men, have set them to throwing up defenses and have made a nice theatrical redoubt that he could have held quite easily with the help of nine men for a day or two.  And since the really worthwhile things go often unrewarded, but the gallery-plays never, nobody would have blamed him had he chosen some such course as that.

But Brown’s idea of holding down a place was to make that place a thorn in the side of the enemy.  And since he did not know who was the enemy, or where he was, nor why he was an enemy, nor when he would attack, he proposed to find out these things for himself preparatory to making the said enemy as uncomfortable as his meager resources would permit, when eked out by an honest “dogged-does-it” brain.

He buried the three men whom Fate had seemed to value at the price of a fakir’s freedom.  And, being a religious man, to whom religion was a fact and the rest of the universe a theory, he was able to say a full funeral service over them from memory.  He said it at the grave-end, with a lantern in his hand and one man facing him across the grave—­as the English used to drink when the Danes had landed, each watching for the glint of steel beyond the other’s shoulder.

And, four on each side of the trench that they had dug, the remainder knelt and faced the night each way—­partly from enforced piety, and partly because eight men back to back, with their bayonets outward and their butts against their knees, are an awkward proposition for an enemy.  They mumbled the responses because Brown made them do it, and they kept their eyes skinned because the night seemed full of other eyes, and sounds.

“And now, you men,” said Brown, changing his voice to suit the nature of his task, “you can get your sleep by fours.  I don’t care which four of you goes to sleep first, but there are only two watches of us left, and there are about four hours left to sleep in, by my reckoning.  That’s two hours’ sleep for each man.  And we’ll keep clear of the guardroom.  As I understand my orders, the important point’s the cross-roads.  I’m supposed to halt every one who comes, and to ask him his business.  And that’d be impossible to do from the guardroom here.  Let this be a lesson to you men, now.  In interpretin’ orders, when a point’s in doubt, always look for the meaning of the orders rather than the letter of them, obeying the letter only when the meaning and the letter are the same thing.  The letter of our orders says the guardroom.  The meaning’s clear.  We’re here to guard the cross-roads.  We take the meaning, and let the letter hang!