That night she dressed as a rangar once more, and rode in company with Tess and Dick, with Ismail the Afridi running like a dog in the shadows behind them, to the fort on the hill that the English had promised to evacuate that night.  They never changed the garrison in any case except by night, because of the heat and the long march for the men; and as near the full moon as possible was the customary date.

As they neared the fort they could see Tom Tripe, with his huge dog silhouetted on the bastion beside him, standing like Napoleon on the seashore keeping vigil.  From that height he could oversee the blocked-up mouth of Dick’s mine, and in the bright moonlight it would have been difficult for any one to approach either mine or fort without detection; for there was only one road, and Dick’s track making a detour from it—­ both in full view.

He caught sight of them, and Dick whistled, the dog answering with a cavernous howl of recognition.  Tom disappeared from the bastion, and after about ten minutes turned up in the shadow where they waited.

“Come to watch the old march out and the new march in?” he asked.  “I’ll stand here with you, if I may.  They’re due.”

“Is everything ready?” asked Yasmini.

“Yes, Your Ladyship.  They’ve been ready for an hour, and fretful.  There’s a story gone the rounds that the fort is haunted, and if ever a garrison was glad to quit it’s this one!  Let’s hope the incoming garrison don’t get wind of it.  A Sepoy with the creeps ain’t dependable.  Hullo, here they come!”

There came a sound of steady tramping up-hill, and a bugle somewhere up in the darkness announced that the out-going garrison had heard it and were standing to arms.  Presently Utirupa rode into view accompanied by half a dozen of his guests, and followed by a company from his own army, officered by Rajputs.  If he knew that Yasmini was watching from the shadow he made no sign, but rode straight on up-hill.  The heavy breathing of his men sounded through the darkness like the whispering of giants, and their steady tramp was like a giant’s footfall; for Tom Tripe had drilled them thoroughly, even if their weapons were nearly as old-fashioned as the fort to which they marched.

After an interminable interval there came another bugle-blast above them, and the departing garrison tramped within ear-shot.

“Now count them!” Yasmini whispered, and Tess wondered why.

They were marching down-hill as fast as they could swing—­a detachment of Punjabi infantry under the command of a native subahdar, with two ammunition mules and a cartful of their kits and personal belongings—­ all talking and laughing as if regret were the last thing in their minds.

“Ninety-seven,” said Tess, when the last had passed down-hill.

“Did you count the man beside the driver on the cart?”

“Yes.”

“There was one sick man in a dhoolie.  Did you count him?”