The grim old warrior’s voice thrilled with the throb of loyalty, as he stood erect and pointed to the shadowy archway through which the road wound to the plain beyond.

“Sahib, I taught thy father how to use his sword!  I nursed thee when thou wert little.  Would I give three false counsel now?  Ride, sahib—­ride!”

Bellairs turned away and looked at his charger, a big, brown Khaubuli stallion, named for the devil and true in temper and courage to his name; two men were holding him, ten paces off.

“Such a horse I need this night, Sahib!  Thy second charger can keep pace with the guns!”

Bellairs gave a sudden order, and the men led the brute back into his stable.

“Change the saddle to my second charger!” he ordered.

Then he turned to the Risaldar again, with hand outstretched.

“I’m ashamed of myself, Mahommed Khan!” he said, with a vain attempt to smile.  “I should have gone an hour ago!  Please take my horse Shaitan, and make such disposition for my wife’s safety as you see fit.  Follow as and when you can; I trust you, and I shall be grateful to you whatever happens!”

“Well spoken, Sahib!  I knew thou wert a man!  We who serve the Raj have neither sons, nor wives, nor sweethearts!  Allah guard you, Sahib!  The section waits—­and the Service can not wait!”

“One moment while I tell my wife!”

“Halt, Sahib!  Thou hast said good-by a thousand times!  A woman’s tears—­are they heart-meat for a soldier when the bits are champing?  Nay!  See, sahib; they bring thy second charger!  Mount!  I will bring thy wife to Jundhra for thee!  The Service waits!”

The lieutenant turned and mounted.

“Very well, Mahommed Khan!” he said.  “I know you’re right!  Section! 
Prepare to mount!” he roared, and the stirrups rang in answer to him. 
“Mount!  Good-by, Mahommed Khan!  Good luck to you!  Section, right! 
Trot, march!”

With a crash and the clattering of iron shoes on stone the guns jingled off into the darkness, were swallowed by the gaping archway and rattled out on the plain.

The Risaldar stood grimly where he was until the last hoof-beat and bump of gun-wheel had died away into the distance; then he turned and climbed the winding stairway to the room where the lamp still shone through gauzy curtains.

On a dozen roof-tops, where men lay still and muttered, brown eyes followed the movements of the section and teeth that were betel-stained grinned hideously.

From a nearby temple, tight-packed between a hundred crowded houses, came a wailing, high-pitched solo sung to Siva—­the Destroyer.  And as it died down to a quavering finish it was followed by a ghoulish laugh that echoed and reechoed off the age-old city-wall.

Proud as a Royal Rajput—­and there is nothing else on God’s green earth that is even half as proud—­true to his salt, and stout of heart even if he was trembling at the knees, Mahommed Khan, two-medal man and Risaldar, knocked twice on the door of Mrs. Lellairs’ room, and entered.