Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen.Experimental.The days had gone by, and now Campian was installed in the forest bungalow. Colonel Jermyn’s invitation had gone forth, but the missive which would have counteracted it had not, so here he was.Not without some deliberation had he decided on accepting it. He had thought himself safe; had reckoned he had safely parted with all illusions, as conducive only to disturbance and anxiety, and the greatest of all illusions was Vivien Wymer. But the sudden and unlooked for reappearance of the latter had reopened a wound. Yet why? She was the same as before. She had failed him once. She had sacrificed him to others once, and would of course do so again unhesitatingly. Why not? There was no such thing as love as they two had once looked at it—had once imagined it. A mere illusion; pleasant while it lasted, painful when its illusoriness became evident. But then the wrench, though painful, even agonising, was over—and in its effect salutary. Five years make a difference in a man’s life. He had not been young then; he was older now. Sensibility was blunted. The capacity for self-torment was no longer his.Love, the ever endurable! He had believed in that once. He was no misogynist, even now. His experience of the other sex had been considerable. He was ready to accord the members thereof the possession of many delightful qualities. As friends they were staunch, as companions unrivalled. Life unbrightened by feminine presence and feminine influences would be a dull affair. But as exponents of Love, the ever endurable, they were a failure; and exactly as he came to appreciate this did he come to appreciate the other sex the more because he had ceased to expect too much.His experiences had been many and varied, and took in all types of the softer sex, and he had found them wonderfully similar. The fire and passion of to-day became chill and indifference a year hence. Then Vivien Wymer had come into his life, and lo, all was changed. Here was a glorious exception to the rather soulless rule. She met his every want; she appealed to him as he could never have believed any woman could, and by some strange, magnetic instinct, his own personality appealed to hers. They seemed made for each other—and yet—he had been sacrificed. Not even there was he to be all in all—to be first and everything.They had seen each other again once since that chance meeting in the markhôr cave. The colonel and his niece had ridden over to Upward’s camp to tiffin, and it was on that occasion that the hearty old soldier had pressed him to come and pay them a visit. He had not even glanced at Vivien, striving to read to what extent she would second the invitation, but had accepted on the spot, yet not without a mental reservation.For there was one point which he desired to debate within himself, and that was the very one which had occurred to Vivien. How could they two be together under the same roof, in close, daily intercourse as mere acquaintances, they two who had been so much to each other? How could they bear the strain, how keep up therôle?Then when his meditations had reached this point, a strange exultant thrill seemed to disturb the balance of his clearer judgment. Why should therôlebe kept up? After being parted for five years, they had met again—nay, more—had been thrown together again in this strange, wild country, that in former times had been to either of them no more than a mere geographical name. Both were unchanged. There was a softening in Vivien’s voice, when off her guard, as on the last occasion of their meeting, which seemed to point to the fact that she was. For himself—well, he had grown older, wiser—and, he imagined, harder. Still, the wound did seem to be reopening. Why, the whole was almost as though Fate had gone out of her way to bring they two together again.Yes, he had grown harder. Love, the ever endurable! Ridiculous! She had sacrificed him before, and would do so again if occasion arose. If she did not do so it would be because occasion had not arisen, and this consideration constituted a state of potential unreliability, which was not reassuring. The idea even served to re-awaken much of the old bitterness and rankling resentment, and he decided that it would be an interesting, if coldblooded, study in character to observe how Vivien herself would come out under such an ordeal as the close, intimate intercourse which life beneath the same roof could not but involve.Once there, he had no cause to regret his decision. The colonel was a fine old soldier of the very best type. Most of his life had been spent in India, and he was full of anecdote and reminiscence. He had served through the Mutiny, and in several frontier disturbances, and his knowledge of the country and its natives was intelligent and exhaustive. He had been a sportsman, too, in his time—and, in short, was a man whom it was a pleasure to talk with. He and Campian took to each other immensely, and the two would sit together under the verandah of an evening, smoking their cheroots and exchanging ideas, while Vivien discoursed music through the open doors, upon a cottage piano which had been lugged up, at some risk to its tuning and general anatomy, on board the hideous necessary camel.Decidedly it was very close quarters, indeed, this party of three, isolated there in that remote forest bungalow, away among the chaotic, piled up mountain deserts of wild Baluchistan; but there was no element of monotony about it; indeed, how could there be when to two out of the three life thus represented an ordeal that meant so much, that might mean indeed so much more. Yet it spoke volumes for the self control of both that no suspicion should have entered the mind of the third that they had ever beheld each other elsewhere, and under very near circumstances. Their intercourse was free and unrestrained, but it was the easy intercourse of two people who had ideas in common and liked each other’s society, and totally devoid of any symptom of covering a warmer feeling. They would frequently take rides or walks together through the juniper forest, or to some point overlooking a new or wider view of the great chaotic mountain waste, and it spoke volumes for their self control that no allusion was ever made to the past. They would not have been human if occasionally some undercurrent of feeling had not now and then come unguardedly near the surface, but only to be instantly repressed. It was as though both were engaged in a diplomatic game requiring a high degree of skill, and in which each was watching the next move of the other with a jealous eye.Once, in course of their rides together, the two were threading atangi, and the sense of being shut within those high rock walls moved Vivien to broach the subject of the adventure which had so nearly ended in tragedy for her companion and his.“It must have been a dreadful experience,” she said, looking up at the cliffs overhead.“Yes. It was awkward. I’ve no use for a repetition of it.”His tone was discouraging, as though he would fain have changed the subject. But she seemed to cling to it.“I think that was a splendid feat,” she went on, looking straight at him. “I wish I knew what it was like never to be afraid.”“So do I—most heartily. But I simply don’t believe in the existence of that enviable state; if you can talk of the existence of a negative, that is.”“But you do know what it is. Were you ever afraid of anything in your life?”The very words Nesta had used. Then he had not taken them in a complimentary sense. He had thought the remark a foolish one. Now coming from this woman, who had idealised him—who did still—with her wide luminous eyes turned full upon his face, and that unguarded softening which had again crept into her tone, there was a subtle flattery in it which was delicious, but enervating. As a matter of fact he really thought nothing of the feat, beyond what a lucky thing it was they should have been able to save both their lives. He answered so shortly as to seem ungracious.“Very much and very often. I would rather run away than fight any day. Fact.”“I don’t believe you.”“No? People don’t, I find. Some day I may do that very thing—then when everybody is howling me down I can always turn round and say—‘I told you so, and you wouldn’t believe me.’”“But do you want them to believe you?”“Why, of course. You don’t know me at all, Vivien, even now.” Then, as if to hurry away from a dangerous slip. “By the by, I never can understand the insane way in which even civilised and thinking people elect to deify what they call courage or pluck. There is no such thing really. It is purely a matter of opportunity or temperament—in short, sheer accident. To get out of a tight place a man has got to do something. While doing it he has no time to think. If he had, in nine cases out of ten he’d run away.”“Yes? And what about when he has to go into a tight place?”“Why, then he’s got to go. And as a matter of fact it is funk that drives him in. The opprobrium and possibly material penalty, he would incur by backing out constitute the more formidable alternative of the two. So of the two evils man, being essentially a self preserving animal, instinctively chooses the least.”“Plausible, but not convincing,” returned Vivien, with a laugh. “And is there not something of what they call a ‘crank’ underlying that philosophy?”“‘They’ are apt to say that of any application of the principles of common sense,”—“as I have so often told you before,” he was nearly adding.“Was Miss Cheriton very much scared that day? She says she’ll never get over it as long as she lives.”“Poor little girl. It must have been a ghastly experience. She behaved very well; was no more scared than any other woman would have been, and a good deal less so than some.”“What a pretty girl she is.”“Very—of her type.”Vivien was conscious of two emotions—swift, simultaneous as a lightning flash; first a pang over the readiness with which he endorsed her remark, then a heartbeat of relief, for those three words constituted a whole saving clause.“You must have seen a great deal of her?”No sooner uttered than Vivien would have given anything to recall the remark. What construction would he put upon it other than jealousy of this blue-eyed, golden-haired girl, who had several years of youth the advantage over herself?“That depended upon circumstances. Nesta Cheriton has a greatpenchantfor the British Army, and the British Army thoroughly reciprocates the predilection. While the British Army was represented at Chirria Bach I saw not much of her, over and above the occasions when one had to meet in ordinary life. While it was unrepresented she seemed to make herself equally happy in going chikór shooting with me. On the whole, I rather like the little girl. She is bright and amusing, and acts, I suppose, as a passing tonic to one’s jaded and middle-aged spirits.”His tone had been that of absolute and unaffected ease, and now it occurred to him suddenly, and for the first time, that Vivien was putting him through something of a catechism. The moral dissection which he had promised himself in risking a sojourn beneath the same roof with her had already begun, and this was only a phase of it. At such times the old feeling of rankling bitterness would come upon him, and with it a wave of desolation and heart-emptiness. Why had she failed him—she his destined counterpart? Why had she proved so weak under a not very strong ordeal? He had indeed become hard, when he could go through day after day in closest companionship with her, and yet keep on the mask, never once be betrayed into letting down his guard.One consideration had acted as a salutary cold douche in the event of the smouldering fires of his nature rising too near their restraining rock crust. One day Vivien was telling him all about her uncle and how she came to be keeping house for him. She had done so since her aunt’s death, and supposed she would go on doing so. He was such a dear old man, she said—so thoughtful and kind and unselfish, and he had no one to look after him but her. All of which her listener, even from his short opportunity of observation, was inclined to endorse; but the sting lay in the concluding consideration, for it recalled that other time. In it had lain the pretext for sacrificing him to an imaginary duty. He was not going to risk a repetition of what he had then undergone. The iron entered deeper and deeper.Once an incident occurred which nearly availed to shatter and melt it. Vivien had gone into his room during his absence, as she frequently did, to see if there was not some little touch she could add to its comfort or attractiveness. An object on his table caught her attention. She picked it up and examined it, and her eyes filled. Yet it was only an old tobacco pouch, and a very worn and weather-beaten one at that—so worn and frayed that hardly more than a few threads of the original embroidery still hung to the cover. Then she did an extraordinary thing. Instead of replacing it she took it away with her. That night she sat up late, and lo, in the course of the day, going into his room Campian found that the old battered pouch for which he had hunted high and low was replaced by a beautiful new one, the embroidery of which was a perfect work of art.“Why did you take so much trouble?” he said when next they met. “You could not have known I had lost the other.”“Is that why we were so glum last night?” she returned, a glad light, struggling with a mischievous one, in her eyes. “Never mind. This is a much better one.”“I loved that one. I would give a great deal to recover it, as you ought to know.”“Wait a moment.” She left him and returned almost immediately.“Here it is—or what is left of it. Now—? What will you give?”She held it out to him—then drew it back. Her eyes were raised to his. Her voice was soft and caressing as ever he had heard it in the old days. Just one of those trivial accidents bringing about the most crucial moment in two lives—when, as usual, the most trivial of causes availed utterly to mar its effect. That most trivial of causes was the voice of Colonel Jermyn, followed by the entrance of its jolly possessor.“Here’s thedâkjust come from Upward. They’re all going back to Shâlalai the day after to-morrow Campian, and want to know if you’ve had enough of us yet. If you have they say they are leaving early and you’d better be down at the camp to-morrow night. If you haven’t—why—all the better for us.”“The point is whether you haven’t had enough of me, Colonel.” But while he made the laughing remark his glance travelled round to Vivien’s face. It was one of those moments when her guard was down. The interruption had come so inopportunely. Decidedly the study he had promised himself was bearing rich results.“Pooh! Of course we haven’t. Why, you’ve only just come. Besides, you can get to Shâlalai at any time. That’s settled then. But I have an idea. We might go down to Mehriâb station and see them off. There are some things I am getting up, and that idiot of a Babu in charge can’t send an intelligent answer to any question I write him. It’s not a bad sort of ride down there, and we’ll kill two birds with one stone. What do you say, Viv?”“I beg to second it, Uncle Edward. The idea is an extremely good one.”To him who watched it, while not seeming to, there was an entire revelation in Vivien’s face during that momentary lifting of the veil. She was as anxious to prolong the time as—he was. Yes, that is what it amounted to. The experiment, from its coldblooded side, seemed to have failed.“We shall be up here some weeks longer, Campian”—went on the Colonel—“but of course if you have to go, it is easy enough to get to Shâlalai. Meanwhile my boy, as long as you can make yourself happy here we are only too glad.”“Oh, I can do that all right, Colonel. And I’m not tied to time in any way either.”Again that relieved look on Vivien’s face. Some weeks! What might not be the result of those weeks was the thought that was in the minds of both of them? What might not transpire within those weeks? Ah, if they had only known.“By the way there’s another item ofkubbarin Upward’s letter,” went on the Colonel, fumbling for that missive. “Abudmâshnamed Umar Khan has started out on a Ghazi expedition down Sukkâf way. He and several others rode out along the road and cut down a couple of poor devils of gharri-wallahs. Killed ’em dead as a door nail. There was amûllahin one of the gharris, and they plundered him. He got out a Korân and put it on his head—singing out that he was amûllah. ‘Mûllahor not,’ says Umar Khan—‘hand out those seven hundred rupees you’ve got on board.’ And he had to hand them out. Sacrilegious scamps—ha, ha! But if he hadn’t been amûllahthey’d have cut him up too. Well thesebudmâsheswill have to swing for it. They’ll soon be run to earth. Nice country this, eh, Campian?”“Rather. It seems to me only half conquered, and not that.”“Yes. It’s run at a loss entirely. A mere buffer State. We hold it on the principle of grabbing as much as we can and sticking to it, all the world over—and in this particular instance putting as much as we can between the Russians and India.”“And what if Umar Khan is not speedily run to earth?”“Oh, then he’ll knock around a bit and make things generally unpleasant. Do a little dacoity from time to time. But we are bound to bone him in the long run.”“There’s an uncommonly queer closeness in the air this evening,” said the Colonel as they were sitting out under the verandah a little later. “As if there was a storm of sorts working up. Yet there’s no sign of thundercloud anywhere. Don’t you notice it, Vivien?”“I think so. It has a dispiriting effect on one, as if something was going to happen.”The sun had gone down in a lurid haze, which was not cloud, and the jagged peaks of the opposite range were suffused in a hot, vaporous afterglow, while the dark depth of juniper forest in the deep, narrow valley seemed very far down indeed. What little air there was came in warm puffs.“We all seem ratherchûpthis evening,” said the Colonel. “Viv, how would it be to play us something lively to wake us up?”She rose and went inside. Campian could still see her as she sat at the piano, rattling off Gilbert and Sullivan at their liveliest. He could continue the very favourite occupation in which he had been indulging—that of simply watching her—noting every movement, the turn of the head, the droop of the eyelids, the sweet and perfect grace which characterised her most trivial act. This woman was simply perfect in his sight—his ideal. Yet to all outward intent they were on the easy, friendly terms of two people who merely liked each other and no more.“Come and have a ‘peg,’ Campian,” said the Colonel presently.“No thanks—not just now.”“Well, I’m going to,” and away he went to the dining room.Then Campian, sitting there, was conscious of a very strange and startling phenomenon. There was a feeling as though the world were falling away from beneath his feet, together with a dull rumble. There was a clatter of glass and table ornaments in the drawing room, and he could see Vivien sway and nearly fall from the music-stool. He sprang to his feet to rush to her aid, and seemed hardly able to preserve his own balance. Both staggering they met in the doorway.“Oh, Howard, what is it?” she cried, seizing in both of hers the hand which he had stretched out to help her.“Quick. Come outside,” was all he said. They were able to walk now, and he drew her outside the verandah, right into the open. Then again came that cavernous rumble, and the earth fairly reeled beneath their feet.“That’s what all this heaviness in the air has been about,” he said, as the ground felt firm again. “A shock of earthquake.”“Is it over? Will there be any more?” she gasped, her white face and dilated eyes turned up to his. She still held his hands, in her sudden terror, casting all considerations of conventionality to the winds.“I don’t think so,” he answered, a very tremble of tenderness in his voice as he strove to reassure her. “These shocks generally go in twos or threes, like waves. And even if there are any more we are all right outside.”Here the humorous element asserted itself, in the shape of Colonel Jermyn choking and coughing in the verandah. In his hand he held a tall tumbler, nearly empty.“Look at this, Campian,” he cried. “A man can’t even have a ‘peg’ in his own house without the whole world rising up against it. Flinging it in his face, and half choking him, by George.”“Some awful big teetotaler must have gone below, Colonel, to raise racket enough to knock your ‘peg’ out of your hand. I hope you’ll take warning and forswear ‘pegs.’”“Ha, ha! Well, Viv? Badly scared, child?”She laughed, but the colour had not yet come back to her cheeks.“I predicted something was going to happen, didn’t I?” she said.“And it has happened—and now there’s another thing going to happen, and that is dinner, so we’d better go inside and begin to think about it. What? Is it safe? Of course, though, my dear, I don’t wonder at it if you were a little scared. It’s an experience that is apt to be alarming at first.”The while the speaker was chuckling to himself. He had been a witness both by ear and eye to the foregoing scene, having overheard Vivien’s alarmed apostrophe.“So? It has come to that, has it?” he was saying to himself. “‘Howard,’ indeed? But how dark they’ve kept it. Well, well. They’re both of them old enough to look after themselves. ‘Howard,’ indeed!” and the jolly Colonel chuckled to himself, as with kindly eyes he watched the pair that evening, reading their easy unrestrained intercourse in an entirely new light.

The days had gone by, and now Campian was installed in the forest bungalow. Colonel Jermyn’s invitation had gone forth, but the missive which would have counteracted it had not, so here he was.

Not without some deliberation had he decided on accepting it. He had thought himself safe; had reckoned he had safely parted with all illusions, as conducive only to disturbance and anxiety, and the greatest of all illusions was Vivien Wymer. But the sudden and unlooked for reappearance of the latter had reopened a wound. Yet why? She was the same as before. She had failed him once. She had sacrificed him to others once, and would of course do so again unhesitatingly. Why not? There was no such thing as love as they two had once looked at it—had once imagined it. A mere illusion; pleasant while it lasted, painful when its illusoriness became evident. But then the wrench, though painful, even agonising, was over—and in its effect salutary. Five years make a difference in a man’s life. He had not been young then; he was older now. Sensibility was blunted. The capacity for self-torment was no longer his.

Love, the ever endurable! He had believed in that once. He was no misogynist, even now. His experience of the other sex had been considerable. He was ready to accord the members thereof the possession of many delightful qualities. As friends they were staunch, as companions unrivalled. Life unbrightened by feminine presence and feminine influences would be a dull affair. But as exponents of Love, the ever endurable, they were a failure; and exactly as he came to appreciate this did he come to appreciate the other sex the more because he had ceased to expect too much.

His experiences had been many and varied, and took in all types of the softer sex, and he had found them wonderfully similar. The fire and passion of to-day became chill and indifference a year hence. Then Vivien Wymer had come into his life, and lo, all was changed. Here was a glorious exception to the rather soulless rule. She met his every want; she appealed to him as he could never have believed any woman could, and by some strange, magnetic instinct, his own personality appealed to hers. They seemed made for each other—and yet—he had been sacrificed. Not even there was he to be all in all—to be first and everything.

They had seen each other again once since that chance meeting in the markhôr cave. The colonel and his niece had ridden over to Upward’s camp to tiffin, and it was on that occasion that the hearty old soldier had pressed him to come and pay them a visit. He had not even glanced at Vivien, striving to read to what extent she would second the invitation, but had accepted on the spot, yet not without a mental reservation.

For there was one point which he desired to debate within himself, and that was the very one which had occurred to Vivien. How could they two be together under the same roof, in close, daily intercourse as mere acquaintances, they two who had been so much to each other? How could they bear the strain, how keep up therôle?

Then when his meditations had reached this point, a strange exultant thrill seemed to disturb the balance of his clearer judgment. Why should therôlebe kept up? After being parted for five years, they had met again—nay, more—had been thrown together again in this strange, wild country, that in former times had been to either of them no more than a mere geographical name. Both were unchanged. There was a softening in Vivien’s voice, when off her guard, as on the last occasion of their meeting, which seemed to point to the fact that she was. For himself—well, he had grown older, wiser—and, he imagined, harder. Still, the wound did seem to be reopening. Why, the whole was almost as though Fate had gone out of her way to bring they two together again.

Yes, he had grown harder. Love, the ever endurable! Ridiculous! She had sacrificed him before, and would do so again if occasion arose. If she did not do so it would be because occasion had not arisen, and this consideration constituted a state of potential unreliability, which was not reassuring. The idea even served to re-awaken much of the old bitterness and rankling resentment, and he decided that it would be an interesting, if coldblooded, study in character to observe how Vivien herself would come out under such an ordeal as the close, intimate intercourse which life beneath the same roof could not but involve.

Once there, he had no cause to regret his decision. The colonel was a fine old soldier of the very best type. Most of his life had been spent in India, and he was full of anecdote and reminiscence. He had served through the Mutiny, and in several frontier disturbances, and his knowledge of the country and its natives was intelligent and exhaustive. He had been a sportsman, too, in his time—and, in short, was a man whom it was a pleasure to talk with. He and Campian took to each other immensely, and the two would sit together under the verandah of an evening, smoking their cheroots and exchanging ideas, while Vivien discoursed music through the open doors, upon a cottage piano which had been lugged up, at some risk to its tuning and general anatomy, on board the hideous necessary camel.

Decidedly it was very close quarters, indeed, this party of three, isolated there in that remote forest bungalow, away among the chaotic, piled up mountain deserts of wild Baluchistan; but there was no element of monotony about it; indeed, how could there be when to two out of the three life thus represented an ordeal that meant so much, that might mean indeed so much more. Yet it spoke volumes for the self control of both that no suspicion should have entered the mind of the third that they had ever beheld each other elsewhere, and under very near circumstances. Their intercourse was free and unrestrained, but it was the easy intercourse of two people who had ideas in common and liked each other’s society, and totally devoid of any symptom of covering a warmer feeling. They would frequently take rides or walks together through the juniper forest, or to some point overlooking a new or wider view of the great chaotic mountain waste, and it spoke volumes for their self control that no allusion was ever made to the past. They would not have been human if occasionally some undercurrent of feeling had not now and then come unguardedly near the surface, but only to be instantly repressed. It was as though both were engaged in a diplomatic game requiring a high degree of skill, and in which each was watching the next move of the other with a jealous eye.

Once, in course of their rides together, the two were threading atangi, and the sense of being shut within those high rock walls moved Vivien to broach the subject of the adventure which had so nearly ended in tragedy for her companion and his.

“It must have been a dreadful experience,” she said, looking up at the cliffs overhead.

“Yes. It was awkward. I’ve no use for a repetition of it.”

His tone was discouraging, as though he would fain have changed the subject. But she seemed to cling to it.

“I think that was a splendid feat,” she went on, looking straight at him. “I wish I knew what it was like never to be afraid.”

“So do I—most heartily. But I simply don’t believe in the existence of that enviable state; if you can talk of the existence of a negative, that is.”

“But you do know what it is. Were you ever afraid of anything in your life?”

The very words Nesta had used. Then he had not taken them in a complimentary sense. He had thought the remark a foolish one. Now coming from this woman, who had idealised him—who did still—with her wide luminous eyes turned full upon his face, and that unguarded softening which had again crept into her tone, there was a subtle flattery in it which was delicious, but enervating. As a matter of fact he really thought nothing of the feat, beyond what a lucky thing it was they should have been able to save both their lives. He answered so shortly as to seem ungracious.

“Very much and very often. I would rather run away than fight any day. Fact.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“No? People don’t, I find. Some day I may do that very thing—then when everybody is howling me down I can always turn round and say—‘I told you so, and you wouldn’t believe me.’”

“But do you want them to believe you?”

“Why, of course. You don’t know me at all, Vivien, even now.” Then, as if to hurry away from a dangerous slip. “By the by, I never can understand the insane way in which even civilised and thinking people elect to deify what they call courage or pluck. There is no such thing really. It is purely a matter of opportunity or temperament—in short, sheer accident. To get out of a tight place a man has got to do something. While doing it he has no time to think. If he had, in nine cases out of ten he’d run away.”

“Yes? And what about when he has to go into a tight place?”

“Why, then he’s got to go. And as a matter of fact it is funk that drives him in. The opprobrium and possibly material penalty, he would incur by backing out constitute the more formidable alternative of the two. So of the two evils man, being essentially a self preserving animal, instinctively chooses the least.”

“Plausible, but not convincing,” returned Vivien, with a laugh. “And is there not something of what they call a ‘crank’ underlying that philosophy?”

“‘They’ are apt to say that of any application of the principles of common sense,”—“as I have so often told you before,” he was nearly adding.

“Was Miss Cheriton very much scared that day? She says she’ll never get over it as long as she lives.”

“Poor little girl. It must have been a ghastly experience. She behaved very well; was no more scared than any other woman would have been, and a good deal less so than some.”

“What a pretty girl she is.”

“Very—of her type.”

Vivien was conscious of two emotions—swift, simultaneous as a lightning flash; first a pang over the readiness with which he endorsed her remark, then a heartbeat of relief, for those three words constituted a whole saving clause.

“You must have seen a great deal of her?”

No sooner uttered than Vivien would have given anything to recall the remark. What construction would he put upon it other than jealousy of this blue-eyed, golden-haired girl, who had several years of youth the advantage over herself?

“That depended upon circumstances. Nesta Cheriton has a greatpenchantfor the British Army, and the British Army thoroughly reciprocates the predilection. While the British Army was represented at Chirria Bach I saw not much of her, over and above the occasions when one had to meet in ordinary life. While it was unrepresented she seemed to make herself equally happy in going chikór shooting with me. On the whole, I rather like the little girl. She is bright and amusing, and acts, I suppose, as a passing tonic to one’s jaded and middle-aged spirits.”

His tone had been that of absolute and unaffected ease, and now it occurred to him suddenly, and for the first time, that Vivien was putting him through something of a catechism. The moral dissection which he had promised himself in risking a sojourn beneath the same roof with her had already begun, and this was only a phase of it. At such times the old feeling of rankling bitterness would come upon him, and with it a wave of desolation and heart-emptiness. Why had she failed him—she his destined counterpart? Why had she proved so weak under a not very strong ordeal? He had indeed become hard, when he could go through day after day in closest companionship with her, and yet keep on the mask, never once be betrayed into letting down his guard.

One consideration had acted as a salutary cold douche in the event of the smouldering fires of his nature rising too near their restraining rock crust. One day Vivien was telling him all about her uncle and how she came to be keeping house for him. She had done so since her aunt’s death, and supposed she would go on doing so. He was such a dear old man, she said—so thoughtful and kind and unselfish, and he had no one to look after him but her. All of which her listener, even from his short opportunity of observation, was inclined to endorse; but the sting lay in the concluding consideration, for it recalled that other time. In it had lain the pretext for sacrificing him to an imaginary duty. He was not going to risk a repetition of what he had then undergone. The iron entered deeper and deeper.

Once an incident occurred which nearly availed to shatter and melt it. Vivien had gone into his room during his absence, as she frequently did, to see if there was not some little touch she could add to its comfort or attractiveness. An object on his table caught her attention. She picked it up and examined it, and her eyes filled. Yet it was only an old tobacco pouch, and a very worn and weather-beaten one at that—so worn and frayed that hardly more than a few threads of the original embroidery still hung to the cover. Then she did an extraordinary thing. Instead of replacing it she took it away with her. That night she sat up late, and lo, in the course of the day, going into his room Campian found that the old battered pouch for which he had hunted high and low was replaced by a beautiful new one, the embroidery of which was a perfect work of art.

“Why did you take so much trouble?” he said when next they met. “You could not have known I had lost the other.”

“Is that why we were so glum last night?” she returned, a glad light, struggling with a mischievous one, in her eyes. “Never mind. This is a much better one.”

“I loved that one. I would give a great deal to recover it, as you ought to know.”

“Wait a moment.” She left him and returned almost immediately.

“Here it is—or what is left of it. Now—? What will you give?”

She held it out to him—then drew it back. Her eyes were raised to his. Her voice was soft and caressing as ever he had heard it in the old days. Just one of those trivial accidents bringing about the most crucial moment in two lives—when, as usual, the most trivial of causes availed utterly to mar its effect. That most trivial of causes was the voice of Colonel Jermyn, followed by the entrance of its jolly possessor.

“Here’s thedâkjust come from Upward. They’re all going back to Shâlalai the day after to-morrow Campian, and want to know if you’ve had enough of us yet. If you have they say they are leaving early and you’d better be down at the camp to-morrow night. If you haven’t—why—all the better for us.”

“The point is whether you haven’t had enough of me, Colonel.” But while he made the laughing remark his glance travelled round to Vivien’s face. It was one of those moments when her guard was down. The interruption had come so inopportunely. Decidedly the study he had promised himself was bearing rich results.

“Pooh! Of course we haven’t. Why, you’ve only just come. Besides, you can get to Shâlalai at any time. That’s settled then. But I have an idea. We might go down to Mehriâb station and see them off. There are some things I am getting up, and that idiot of a Babu in charge can’t send an intelligent answer to any question I write him. It’s not a bad sort of ride down there, and we’ll kill two birds with one stone. What do you say, Viv?”

“I beg to second it, Uncle Edward. The idea is an extremely good one.”

To him who watched it, while not seeming to, there was an entire revelation in Vivien’s face during that momentary lifting of the veil. She was as anxious to prolong the time as—he was. Yes, that is what it amounted to. The experiment, from its coldblooded side, seemed to have failed.

“We shall be up here some weeks longer, Campian”—went on the Colonel—“but of course if you have to go, it is easy enough to get to Shâlalai. Meanwhile my boy, as long as you can make yourself happy here we are only too glad.”

“Oh, I can do that all right, Colonel. And I’m not tied to time in any way either.”

Again that relieved look on Vivien’s face. Some weeks! What might not be the result of those weeks was the thought that was in the minds of both of them? What might not transpire within those weeks? Ah, if they had only known.

“By the way there’s another item ofkubbarin Upward’s letter,” went on the Colonel, fumbling for that missive. “Abudmâshnamed Umar Khan has started out on a Ghazi expedition down Sukkâf way. He and several others rode out along the road and cut down a couple of poor devils of gharri-wallahs. Killed ’em dead as a door nail. There was amûllahin one of the gharris, and they plundered him. He got out a Korân and put it on his head—singing out that he was amûllah. ‘Mûllahor not,’ says Umar Khan—‘hand out those seven hundred rupees you’ve got on board.’ And he had to hand them out. Sacrilegious scamps—ha, ha! But if he hadn’t been amûllahthey’d have cut him up too. Well thesebudmâsheswill have to swing for it. They’ll soon be run to earth. Nice country this, eh, Campian?”

“Rather. It seems to me only half conquered, and not that.”

“Yes. It’s run at a loss entirely. A mere buffer State. We hold it on the principle of grabbing as much as we can and sticking to it, all the world over—and in this particular instance putting as much as we can between the Russians and India.”

“And what if Umar Khan is not speedily run to earth?”

“Oh, then he’ll knock around a bit and make things generally unpleasant. Do a little dacoity from time to time. But we are bound to bone him in the long run.”

“There’s an uncommonly queer closeness in the air this evening,” said the Colonel as they were sitting out under the verandah a little later. “As if there was a storm of sorts working up. Yet there’s no sign of thundercloud anywhere. Don’t you notice it, Vivien?”

“I think so. It has a dispiriting effect on one, as if something was going to happen.”

The sun had gone down in a lurid haze, which was not cloud, and the jagged peaks of the opposite range were suffused in a hot, vaporous afterglow, while the dark depth of juniper forest in the deep, narrow valley seemed very far down indeed. What little air there was came in warm puffs.

“We all seem ratherchûpthis evening,” said the Colonel. “Viv, how would it be to play us something lively to wake us up?”

She rose and went inside. Campian could still see her as she sat at the piano, rattling off Gilbert and Sullivan at their liveliest. He could continue the very favourite occupation in which he had been indulging—that of simply watching her—noting every movement, the turn of the head, the droop of the eyelids, the sweet and perfect grace which characterised her most trivial act. This woman was simply perfect in his sight—his ideal. Yet to all outward intent they were on the easy, friendly terms of two people who merely liked each other and no more.

“Come and have a ‘peg,’ Campian,” said the Colonel presently.

“No thanks—not just now.”

“Well, I’m going to,” and away he went to the dining room.

Then Campian, sitting there, was conscious of a very strange and startling phenomenon. There was a feeling as though the world were falling away from beneath his feet, together with a dull rumble. There was a clatter of glass and table ornaments in the drawing room, and he could see Vivien sway and nearly fall from the music-stool. He sprang to his feet to rush to her aid, and seemed hardly able to preserve his own balance. Both staggering they met in the doorway.

“Oh, Howard, what is it?” she cried, seizing in both of hers the hand which he had stretched out to help her.

“Quick. Come outside,” was all he said. They were able to walk now, and he drew her outside the verandah, right into the open. Then again came that cavernous rumble, and the earth fairly reeled beneath their feet.

“That’s what all this heaviness in the air has been about,” he said, as the ground felt firm again. “A shock of earthquake.”

“Is it over? Will there be any more?” she gasped, her white face and dilated eyes turned up to his. She still held his hands, in her sudden terror, casting all considerations of conventionality to the winds.

“I don’t think so,” he answered, a very tremble of tenderness in his voice as he strove to reassure her. “These shocks generally go in twos or threes, like waves. And even if there are any more we are all right outside.”

Here the humorous element asserted itself, in the shape of Colonel Jermyn choking and coughing in the verandah. In his hand he held a tall tumbler, nearly empty.

“Look at this, Campian,” he cried. “A man can’t even have a ‘peg’ in his own house without the whole world rising up against it. Flinging it in his face, and half choking him, by George.”

“Some awful big teetotaler must have gone below, Colonel, to raise racket enough to knock your ‘peg’ out of your hand. I hope you’ll take warning and forswear ‘pegs.’”

“Ha, ha! Well, Viv? Badly scared, child?”

She laughed, but the colour had not yet come back to her cheeks.

“I predicted something was going to happen, didn’t I?” she said.

“And it has happened—and now there’s another thing going to happen, and that is dinner, so we’d better go inside and begin to think about it. What? Is it safe? Of course, though, my dear, I don’t wonder at it if you were a little scared. It’s an experience that is apt to be alarming at first.”

The while the speaker was chuckling to himself. He had been a witness both by ear and eye to the foregoing scene, having overheard Vivien’s alarmed apostrophe.

“So? It has come to that, has it?” he was saying to himself. “‘Howard,’ indeed? But how dark they’ve kept it. Well, well. They’re both of them old enough to look after themselves. ‘Howard,’ indeed!” and the jolly Colonel chuckled to himself, as with kindly eyes he watched the pair that evening, reading their easy unrestrained intercourse in an entirely new light.

Chapter Fourteen.The Tragedy at Mehriâb.Mehriâb station, on the Shâlalai line of railway, was situated amid about as wild, desolate and depressing surroundings as the human mind could possibly conceive.A narrow treeless plain—along which the track lay, straight as a wall—shut in by towering arid mountains, rising to a great height, cleft here and there by a chasm overhung by beetling cliffs—black, frowning and forbidding. At the lower end of the plain rose sad-hued mud humps, streaked with gypsum. There was nothing to relieve the eye, no speck of vivid green standing out from the parched aridity prevailing; but on the other hand all was on a vast scale, and the little station and rest-house looked but a tiny toy planted there beneath the stupendous sweep of those towering hills.In the latter of the buildings aforesaid, a tolerably lively party was assembled, discussing tiffin, or rather having just finished discussion of the same. It had been done picnic fashion, and the room was littered with plates, and knives and forks, and lunch baskets, and paper, and all the accompaniments of an itinerant repast.“Have another ‘peg,’ Campian,” Upward was saying. “No? Sure? You will, Colonel? That’s right. We’ve plenty of time. No hurry whatever. Hazel, don’t kick up such a row, or you’ll have to go outside. Miss Wymer, don’t let them bother you. What was I saying just now?”He took up the thread of what he had been saying, and in a moment he and the Colonel were deep in reminiscences ofshikàr. Vivien and Nesta had risen and were strolling outside, and there Campian joined them. Thedâkbungalow extended its accommodation to travelling natives, for whom there was a department opposite. Camels—some standing, some kneeling, but all snarling—filled the open space in front of this, and wild looking Baluchis in their great white turbans and loose garments were squatting around in groups, placidly chatting, or standing alone in melancholy silence.“Look at this!” said Campian. “It makes quite a picture, taken against the background of that loop-holed mud wall, with the great sweep of mountain rising behind.”Several camels, some ready laden, some not, were kneeling. On one a man was adjusting its load. He was a tall, shaggy, hook-nosed black bearded ruffian, who from time to time cast a sidelong, malevolent glance at the lookers on as he continued his work. In business-like manner he proceeded to adjust each bale and package, then when all was complete, he lifted from the ground a Snider carbine and hung it by its ring to a hook on the high wooden pack saddle. Then he took up his curved sword; but this he secured to the broad sabretache over his shoulder.“Isn’t that a picture in itself?” went on Campian. “Why, adequately reproduced it would bring back the whole scene—the roaring of the camels, the midday glow, the burning heat of this arid hole. I wonder who they are by the way”—for others who had similarly accoutred their camels were jerking the animals up, and preparing for the start.Vivien turned to Bhallu Khan who was just behind, and translated his answer.“He says they are Brahuis from the Bolân side, going further in.”“Why are they all armed like that? Don’t they trust their own people?”“He says they may have heard that Umar Khan is on the warpath, and they are not of his tribe. Nobody knows who anybody is who is not of his tribe—meaning that he doesn’t trust them.”It was something of a contrast to turn from these scowling, brigandish looking wayfarers, to the beaming, benevolent, handsome countenance of the old forest guard. They strolled around a little more, then voted it too hot, and returned to the welcome coolness of thedâkbungalow.Campian, always analytical, was conscious of a change, or rather was it a development? Now that they were together—in a crowd—as he put it to himself, there was a certain feeling of proprietary right that seemed to assert itself in his relations with Vivien. It was something akin to the feeling which was over him in the old time when they moved about together. And yet, why? Well, the close intimate intercourse of the last ten days or so had not been without its effect. Not without an inward thrill either, could he recognise that this intercourse had but begun. They were returning together, and to be candid with himself that hot stifling arid afternoon here on one of the wildest spots on earth’s surface, he could not but recognise that this elation was very real, very exhilarating indeed.“I think we’d better stroll quietly up to the station,” said Upward, as they re-entered. “We may as well have plenty of time to get all this luggage weighed and put right.” Then relapsing into the vernacular: “Khola, you know what goes in and what has to be weighed.”“Ha, Huzoor,” assented the bearer.“Then get away on ahead and do it.”The rest-house was about half a mile distant from the station. On the way to the latter Campian found himself riding beside Nesta Cheriton.“You don’t seem elated over the prospect of returning to Shâlalai,” he said. “Five thousand of the British Army—horse, foot, and artillery! Just think what that represents in the shape of its heroic leaders, Nessita—and yet you are just aschûpas if you were coming away from it all.”“Oh, don’t bother—just at the last, too,” retorted the girl, almost petulantly. “Besides—that joke is becoming rather stale.”“Is it? So it is. So sorry. What about that other joke—is it stale too? The one time you ever took anybody seriously. Won’t you tell me now, Nessie?”“No, I won’t,” she said, this time quite petulantly. “Come along. We are a long way behind.”“Then you will tell me when next we meet, in Shâlalai in a week or two.”“No, I won’t. And look here—I don’t want to hear any more about it.” Then, with apparent inconsequence—“It was mean of you to desert us like that. You might just as well have put off your stay up there until now.”They had reached the station and were in the crowd again by now. And there was somewhat of a crowd on the platform. Long-haired Baluchis, all wearing their curved swords, stood about in threes and fours; chattering Hindus with their womenkind, squatting around upon their bundles and packages; a native policeman in Khaki uniform armed with a Snider rifle—with which he probably could not have hit the traditional haystack—and the joint party with their servants and two or three of the forest guard, constituted quite a crowd on the ordinarily deserted platform; for the arrival of the train—of which there was but one daily each way—was something of an event.Having arranged for the luggage and tickets, Upward was chatting with the stationmaster—a particularly civil, but very ugly Babu from down country—as to the state of the country. The man grinned all over his pockmarked countenance. What would the Sahib have? A Government berth was not one to throw up because it was now and then dangerous, and so many only too eager to jump into it. Umar Khan was not likely to trouble him. Why should he? No defences? No. There was an iron door to the waiting room, loop-holed, but the policeman was the only man armed. Upward proceeded to inspect the said iron door.“Look at this, Colonel,” he said. “Just look, and tell me if ever you saw anything more idiotic in all your life. Here’s a thick iron door, carefully set up for an emergency, loop-holed and all, but the window is utterly unprotected. Just look at it. And there’s no one armed enough to fire through either, except one policeman, who’d be cut down on the first outbreak of disturbance.”“You’re right, Upward. Why, the window is as open as any English drawing room window. There’s a loft though, and an iron ladder. Well, you’d be hard put to it if you were reduced to that.”“Rather. That’s how we British do things. I’ll answer for it the Russians wouldn’t. Why, every one of these stations ought to be a young fort in itself. It would be if the Russians had this line. And they’ll have it too, one of these days at this rate.”And now a vehement ringing of the bell announced the train. On it came, looking, as it slowed down, like a long black centipede, in contrast to the open vastness of Nature; the engine with its cup shaped chimney, vomiting white smoke, its pointed cow-catcher seeming as a living head of the monster. The chattering Hindus were loading up their bundles and hastening to follow; heads of all sorts and colours protruded from the windows, but Mehriâb was not a station where passengers often alighted, so none got out now. The Upwards were busy looking after their multifold luggage—and good-byes were being exchanged.“Now, Ernest, get in,” called out Mrs Upward. “We are just off.”“No hurry. Where’s Tinkles? Got her on board?”“Yes, here she is,” answered Hazel—hoisting up the little terrier to the window, from which point of vantage it proceeded to snarl valorously at a wretched pariah cur, slinking along the platform.“All right. Well, good-bye, Colonel. Good-bye, Miss Wymer. Campian, old chap, I suppose we’ll see you at Shâlalai in a week or two. Ta-ta.”The train rumbled slowly away, quickening its pace. Our trio stood looking after it, Vivien responding to the frantic waving of handkerchiefs from Lily and Hazel.The train had just disappeared within a deep rift which cut it off from the Mehriâb valley like a door. The station master had retired within his office. The Colonel and his niece were in the waiting room collecting their things. Campian, standing outside on the platform, was shielding a match to light a cheroot, when—Heavens! What did this mean?A band of savage looking horsemen came clattering up—ten or a dozen, perhaps—advancing from the open country the other side of the line. They seemed to have sprung out of the earth itself, so sudden was their appearance. All brandished rifles. They dashed straight for the station, springing from their horses at the end of the platform. Then they opened fire on the armed policeman, who was immediately shot dead. The stationmaster ran outside to see what the disturbance was about. He received a couple of bullets the moment he showed himself, and fell, still groaning. Three coolies walking unsuspectingly along the line were the next. A volley laid them low. Then, with wild yells, expressive of mingled fanaticism and blood thirst, the savage Ghazis rushed along the platform waving their naked swords, and looking for more victims. They slashed the wretched Babu to pieces where he lay—and then seeing that their other victims were not quite dead—rushed upon them, and cut and hacked until there seemed not a semblance of humanity left. Whirling their dripping weapons on high in the bright sun, they looked heavenward, and yelled again in sheer mania as they tore back on to the platform.The whole of this appalling tragedy had been enacted in a mere flash of time; with such lightning celerity indeed, that Campian, standing outside, could hardly realise that it had actually happened. It was a fortunate thing that three or four tall Marris, standing together in a group, happened to be between him and the assassins or he would have received the first volley. Quick to profit by the circumstance, he sprang within the waiting room.“Back, back,” he cried, meeting the other two in the doorway. “There’s a row on, of sorts, and they are shooting. Help me with the door, Colonel.”It was a fortunate circumstance that Upward had called their attention to this means of defence, and that they had all looked at it, and partly tried it. Now it swung to without a hitch—and no sooner had it done so than four of those without flung themselves against it with a savage howl. These were the Marris who had unconsciously been the means of saving Campian’s life—and realising that fact, promptly decided to join their Ghazi countrymen, and repair if possible the error. And, indeed, the same held good of the others on the platform. They were there by accident, but, being there, their innate savagery and fanaticism blazed up in response to the maddening slogan of the Ghazis, with whom, almost to a man, they decided to make common cause. If ever a sharp and vivid contrast was to be witnessed it was here. The peaceful, prosaic, commonplace railway station platform of a few moments ago, was now a very hell of raging shaggy demons, yelling with fury and fanatical hate, rolling their eyes around in search of more victims, as they splashed and slipped in the blood of those they had already massacred.Then someone brought news that there were more coolies, hiding for their lives behind a wood pile a little way up the line. With howls of delight, a dozen barbarians started to find some fresh victims, and the defenceless wretches were butchered as they grovelled on the ground and shrieked for mercy.Those left on the platform now got an inspiration. They had killed the Babu in charge, but there would be others. Fired with this idea, they rushed into the station master’s office. Nobody! Into an inner room. Still nobody. They were about to turn and leave, when one, more knowing than the rest, noticed that a large chest was standing rather far out from the wall, and that a shower of dust was still falling from the top of it. He looked behind. Just as he suspected. A man was crouching there, and now quickly they hauled him forth. It was the Eurasian telegraph and ticket clerk, who had hoped to hide away and escape. His yellow face was pale with terror, and he shook in every limb at the sight of those fierce faces and blood dripping tulwars. One of the latter was about to descend upon his head, when somebody in authority intervened, and the murderous blade was lowered.“The money—where is it?” said this man in Hindustani. “Give us over the rupees.”“You shall have them, Sirdar sahib. Don’t let them kill me!” he pleaded, frantic with fear. Then he began fumbling for the safe keys. In his terror he could not find them.“Hurry up, thou son of a pig and a dog!” urged the one who seemed to be the leader; “else will I have thee slain inch by inch, not all at once.”The wretched Eurasian went nearly mad with fear at this threat, but just then, by good luck, he found the keys. His hand, however, shook so much he could hardly open the safe. When he did so, it was found to contain less than they had expected.“Where is the remainder, thou son of Shaitân? Quick, lest we flay thee alive, or broil thee on red-hot coals,” growled the leader.Frantic with fear, the miserable wretch fumbled wildly everywhere. A few loose rupees, and a bag or two containing no great sum were found, but no more.“And is that all, food for the Evil One? Is that all?”“Quite all, Sirdar sahib.”“Good.” And, with the word, the barbarian raised his rifle and shot the other dead.

Mehriâb station, on the Shâlalai line of railway, was situated amid about as wild, desolate and depressing surroundings as the human mind could possibly conceive.

A narrow treeless plain—along which the track lay, straight as a wall—shut in by towering arid mountains, rising to a great height, cleft here and there by a chasm overhung by beetling cliffs—black, frowning and forbidding. At the lower end of the plain rose sad-hued mud humps, streaked with gypsum. There was nothing to relieve the eye, no speck of vivid green standing out from the parched aridity prevailing; but on the other hand all was on a vast scale, and the little station and rest-house looked but a tiny toy planted there beneath the stupendous sweep of those towering hills.

In the latter of the buildings aforesaid, a tolerably lively party was assembled, discussing tiffin, or rather having just finished discussion of the same. It had been done picnic fashion, and the room was littered with plates, and knives and forks, and lunch baskets, and paper, and all the accompaniments of an itinerant repast.

“Have another ‘peg,’ Campian,” Upward was saying. “No? Sure? You will, Colonel? That’s right. We’ve plenty of time. No hurry whatever. Hazel, don’t kick up such a row, or you’ll have to go outside. Miss Wymer, don’t let them bother you. What was I saying just now?”

He took up the thread of what he had been saying, and in a moment he and the Colonel were deep in reminiscences ofshikàr. Vivien and Nesta had risen and were strolling outside, and there Campian joined them. Thedâkbungalow extended its accommodation to travelling natives, for whom there was a department opposite. Camels—some standing, some kneeling, but all snarling—filled the open space in front of this, and wild looking Baluchis in their great white turbans and loose garments were squatting around in groups, placidly chatting, or standing alone in melancholy silence.

“Look at this!” said Campian. “It makes quite a picture, taken against the background of that loop-holed mud wall, with the great sweep of mountain rising behind.”

Several camels, some ready laden, some not, were kneeling. On one a man was adjusting its load. He was a tall, shaggy, hook-nosed black bearded ruffian, who from time to time cast a sidelong, malevolent glance at the lookers on as he continued his work. In business-like manner he proceeded to adjust each bale and package, then when all was complete, he lifted from the ground a Snider carbine and hung it by its ring to a hook on the high wooden pack saddle. Then he took up his curved sword; but this he secured to the broad sabretache over his shoulder.

“Isn’t that a picture in itself?” went on Campian. “Why, adequately reproduced it would bring back the whole scene—the roaring of the camels, the midday glow, the burning heat of this arid hole. I wonder who they are by the way”—for others who had similarly accoutred their camels were jerking the animals up, and preparing for the start.

Vivien turned to Bhallu Khan who was just behind, and translated his answer.

“He says they are Brahuis from the Bolân side, going further in.”

“Why are they all armed like that? Don’t they trust their own people?”

“He says they may have heard that Umar Khan is on the warpath, and they are not of his tribe. Nobody knows who anybody is who is not of his tribe—meaning that he doesn’t trust them.”

It was something of a contrast to turn from these scowling, brigandish looking wayfarers, to the beaming, benevolent, handsome countenance of the old forest guard. They strolled around a little more, then voted it too hot, and returned to the welcome coolness of thedâkbungalow.

Campian, always analytical, was conscious of a change, or rather was it a development? Now that they were together—in a crowd—as he put it to himself, there was a certain feeling of proprietary right that seemed to assert itself in his relations with Vivien. It was something akin to the feeling which was over him in the old time when they moved about together. And yet, why? Well, the close intimate intercourse of the last ten days or so had not been without its effect. Not without an inward thrill either, could he recognise that this intercourse had but begun. They were returning together, and to be candid with himself that hot stifling arid afternoon here on one of the wildest spots on earth’s surface, he could not but recognise that this elation was very real, very exhilarating indeed.

“I think we’d better stroll quietly up to the station,” said Upward, as they re-entered. “We may as well have plenty of time to get all this luggage weighed and put right.” Then relapsing into the vernacular: “Khola, you know what goes in and what has to be weighed.”

“Ha, Huzoor,” assented the bearer.

“Then get away on ahead and do it.”

The rest-house was about half a mile distant from the station. On the way to the latter Campian found himself riding beside Nesta Cheriton.

“You don’t seem elated over the prospect of returning to Shâlalai,” he said. “Five thousand of the British Army—horse, foot, and artillery! Just think what that represents in the shape of its heroic leaders, Nessita—and yet you are just aschûpas if you were coming away from it all.”

“Oh, don’t bother—just at the last, too,” retorted the girl, almost petulantly. “Besides—that joke is becoming rather stale.”

“Is it? So it is. So sorry. What about that other joke—is it stale too? The one time you ever took anybody seriously. Won’t you tell me now, Nessie?”

“No, I won’t,” she said, this time quite petulantly. “Come along. We are a long way behind.”

“Then you will tell me when next we meet, in Shâlalai in a week or two.”

“No, I won’t. And look here—I don’t want to hear any more about it.” Then, with apparent inconsequence—“It was mean of you to desert us like that. You might just as well have put off your stay up there until now.”

They had reached the station and were in the crowd again by now. And there was somewhat of a crowd on the platform. Long-haired Baluchis, all wearing their curved swords, stood about in threes and fours; chattering Hindus with their womenkind, squatting around upon their bundles and packages; a native policeman in Khaki uniform armed with a Snider rifle—with which he probably could not have hit the traditional haystack—and the joint party with their servants and two or three of the forest guard, constituted quite a crowd on the ordinarily deserted platform; for the arrival of the train—of which there was but one daily each way—was something of an event.

Having arranged for the luggage and tickets, Upward was chatting with the stationmaster—a particularly civil, but very ugly Babu from down country—as to the state of the country. The man grinned all over his pockmarked countenance. What would the Sahib have? A Government berth was not one to throw up because it was now and then dangerous, and so many only too eager to jump into it. Umar Khan was not likely to trouble him. Why should he? No defences? No. There was an iron door to the waiting room, loop-holed, but the policeman was the only man armed. Upward proceeded to inspect the said iron door.

“Look at this, Colonel,” he said. “Just look, and tell me if ever you saw anything more idiotic in all your life. Here’s a thick iron door, carefully set up for an emergency, loop-holed and all, but the window is utterly unprotected. Just look at it. And there’s no one armed enough to fire through either, except one policeman, who’d be cut down on the first outbreak of disturbance.”

“You’re right, Upward. Why, the window is as open as any English drawing room window. There’s a loft though, and an iron ladder. Well, you’d be hard put to it if you were reduced to that.”

“Rather. That’s how we British do things. I’ll answer for it the Russians wouldn’t. Why, every one of these stations ought to be a young fort in itself. It would be if the Russians had this line. And they’ll have it too, one of these days at this rate.”

And now a vehement ringing of the bell announced the train. On it came, looking, as it slowed down, like a long black centipede, in contrast to the open vastness of Nature; the engine with its cup shaped chimney, vomiting white smoke, its pointed cow-catcher seeming as a living head of the monster. The chattering Hindus were loading up their bundles and hastening to follow; heads of all sorts and colours protruded from the windows, but Mehriâb was not a station where passengers often alighted, so none got out now. The Upwards were busy looking after their multifold luggage—and good-byes were being exchanged.

“Now, Ernest, get in,” called out Mrs Upward. “We are just off.”

“No hurry. Where’s Tinkles? Got her on board?”

“Yes, here she is,” answered Hazel—hoisting up the little terrier to the window, from which point of vantage it proceeded to snarl valorously at a wretched pariah cur, slinking along the platform.

“All right. Well, good-bye, Colonel. Good-bye, Miss Wymer. Campian, old chap, I suppose we’ll see you at Shâlalai in a week or two. Ta-ta.”

The train rumbled slowly away, quickening its pace. Our trio stood looking after it, Vivien responding to the frantic waving of handkerchiefs from Lily and Hazel.

The train had just disappeared within a deep rift which cut it off from the Mehriâb valley like a door. The station master had retired within his office. The Colonel and his niece were in the waiting room collecting their things. Campian, standing outside on the platform, was shielding a match to light a cheroot, when—Heavens! What did this mean?

A band of savage looking horsemen came clattering up—ten or a dozen, perhaps—advancing from the open country the other side of the line. They seemed to have sprung out of the earth itself, so sudden was their appearance. All brandished rifles. They dashed straight for the station, springing from their horses at the end of the platform. Then they opened fire on the armed policeman, who was immediately shot dead. The stationmaster ran outside to see what the disturbance was about. He received a couple of bullets the moment he showed himself, and fell, still groaning. Three coolies walking unsuspectingly along the line were the next. A volley laid them low. Then, with wild yells, expressive of mingled fanaticism and blood thirst, the savage Ghazis rushed along the platform waving their naked swords, and looking for more victims. They slashed the wretched Babu to pieces where he lay—and then seeing that their other victims were not quite dead—rushed upon them, and cut and hacked until there seemed not a semblance of humanity left. Whirling their dripping weapons on high in the bright sun, they looked heavenward, and yelled again in sheer mania as they tore back on to the platform.

The whole of this appalling tragedy had been enacted in a mere flash of time; with such lightning celerity indeed, that Campian, standing outside, could hardly realise that it had actually happened. It was a fortunate thing that three or four tall Marris, standing together in a group, happened to be between him and the assassins or he would have received the first volley. Quick to profit by the circumstance, he sprang within the waiting room.

“Back, back,” he cried, meeting the other two in the doorway. “There’s a row on, of sorts, and they are shooting. Help me with the door, Colonel.”

It was a fortunate circumstance that Upward had called their attention to this means of defence, and that they had all looked at it, and partly tried it. Now it swung to without a hitch—and no sooner had it done so than four of those without flung themselves against it with a savage howl. These were the Marris who had unconsciously been the means of saving Campian’s life—and realising that fact, promptly decided to join their Ghazi countrymen, and repair if possible the error. And, indeed, the same held good of the others on the platform. They were there by accident, but, being there, their innate savagery and fanaticism blazed up in response to the maddening slogan of the Ghazis, with whom, almost to a man, they decided to make common cause. If ever a sharp and vivid contrast was to be witnessed it was here. The peaceful, prosaic, commonplace railway station platform of a few moments ago, was now a very hell of raging shaggy demons, yelling with fury and fanatical hate, rolling their eyes around in search of more victims, as they splashed and slipped in the blood of those they had already massacred.

Then someone brought news that there were more coolies, hiding for their lives behind a wood pile a little way up the line. With howls of delight, a dozen barbarians started to find some fresh victims, and the defenceless wretches were butchered as they grovelled on the ground and shrieked for mercy.

Those left on the platform now got an inspiration. They had killed the Babu in charge, but there would be others. Fired with this idea, they rushed into the station master’s office. Nobody! Into an inner room. Still nobody. They were about to turn and leave, when one, more knowing than the rest, noticed that a large chest was standing rather far out from the wall, and that a shower of dust was still falling from the top of it. He looked behind. Just as he suspected. A man was crouching there, and now quickly they hauled him forth. It was the Eurasian telegraph and ticket clerk, who had hoped to hide away and escape. His yellow face was pale with terror, and he shook in every limb at the sight of those fierce faces and blood dripping tulwars. One of the latter was about to descend upon his head, when somebody in authority intervened, and the murderous blade was lowered.

“The money—where is it?” said this man in Hindustani. “Give us over the rupees.”

“You shall have them, Sirdar sahib. Don’t let them kill me!” he pleaded, frantic with fear. Then he began fumbling for the safe keys. In his terror he could not find them.

“Hurry up, thou son of a pig and a dog!” urged the one who seemed to be the leader; “else will I have thee slain inch by inch, not all at once.”

The wretched Eurasian went nearly mad with fear at this threat, but just then, by good luck, he found the keys. His hand, however, shook so much he could hardly open the safe. When he did so, it was found to contain less than they had expected.

“Where is the remainder, thou son of Shaitân? Quick, lest we flay thee alive, or broil thee on red-hot coals,” growled the leader.

Frantic with fear, the miserable wretch fumbled wildly everywhere. A few loose rupees, and a bag or two containing no great sum were found, but no more.

“And is that all, food for the Evil One? Is that all?”

“Quite all, Sirdar sahib.”

“Good.” And, with the word, the barbarian raised his rifle and shot the other dead.

Chapter Fifteen.Hard Terms.Meanwhile those in the waiting room were doing all they could to make good their position, and that was not much. Their first attempt at forcing an entrance having failed, the four Marris had rushed among their countrymen who had firearms, striving to bring them against the door in force, or rake the room with a volley through the window, but their attention at the time was taken up with other matters, which afforded the beleaguered ones a brief respite.“Non-combatants up here,” said Campian, pointing to the ladder and the trap door which has been mentioned. “Isn’t that the order, Colonel?”“Yes, certainly. Up you go, Vivien.”But Vivien refused to stir.“I can do something at close quarters, too,” she said, drawing her revolver.“Give it to me. I’ve not got mine with me. Now—go upstairs.”“I may be of use here. Here’s the pistol, though,” handing it over.“Will you obey orders, Viv? What sort of a soldier’s niece are you?”“Do go,” said Campian, looking at her. “Well, I will, then.”As she ascended the iron ladder Campian followed her up, under pretext of aiding her. In reality he managed so he should serve to screen her from any shot that might be fired, for the ladder was in full view of the window.“I know why you came up behind me,” she whispered as she gained the loft. “It was to shield me in case they fired.”Then, before he had time to begin his descent, she bent her head and kissed him, full on the lips.Not a word did he speak as he went down that ladder again. The blood thrilled and tingled through his frame. Not all the fury of fanaticism which spurred the Ghazis on to mania could surpass the exaltation of fearlessness which was upon him as he tried to treasure up the warm sweetness of that kiss—and after five years!“Campian, confound it! We have only a dozen shots among us,” growled the Colonel. “What an ass I am to go about without a pistol.”“We can do a lot with a dozen shots. And Der’ Ali has his tulwar.”Der’ Ali was the Colonel’s bearer, who had been within at the time of the onslaught. He had been a trooper in his master’s old regiment, and they had seen service together on more than one occasion. What had become of the two syces and the forest guard, who were outside, they did not then know, for then the whole volume of the savage fanatics came surging up to the door. In their frenzy they fired wild shots at the solid iron plates.“Tell them, Der’ Ali,” growled Colonel Jermyn, in Hindustani, “that they had better clear out and leave us alone. TheSirkârwill hang every man Jack of their tribe if they interfere with us. And the first man in here we’ll shoot dead; and the rest of them to follow.”The bearer, who understood Baluchi well, rendered this, not minimising the resource and resolution of those within as he did so. A wild yell greeted his words. Then one, more frenzied or enterprising than the rest, pushed his rifle through the window, and the smashing of glass mingled with the report as he blazed into the room. But those within were up to that move. The window being on a line with the door, they had only to flatten themselves against the wall, and the bullet smashed harmless.Then there was a rush on the window. Two men crashed through, badly cut by the glass. Before they could recover themselves they were shot dead. Even Campian’s wretched stores revolver did its work on this occasion. That halted the rest—for the moment.Only for the moment. By a rapid movement, crawling beneath the level of the window sill, several managed to discharge their rifles well into the room. Narrowly the bullets missed the defenders.“Look here. This is getting hot,” growled the Colonel. “Let’s give them one more volley and go into the loft. There one of us can hold the place for ever against the crowd.”Campian had his doubts about the strategical wisdom of this. However, just then there was another rush through the window, and this time his revolver jammed. Outside were thirty furious Ghazis, urging each other on with wild fanatical yells. If they two were cut down what of Vivien? That decided him. She could hold that trap door against the crowd.“All right, Colonel. Up you go. I and Der’ Ali will hold the window.”“You and Der’ Ali be damned,” growled the staunch old veteran. “Obey orders, sir.”“No, no. You forget I’m only a civilian, and not under orders. And—you must be with Vivien.”No time was this for conventionalities, but even then the old man remembered the evening of the earthquake. “Well, I’ll cover your retreat from the ladder,” he said, and up he went.Campian, by a wrench, brought the cylinder of his weapon round. Then, sighting the head of a Ghazi thrust prominently forward, he let go. It was a miss, but a near one. Under cover of it both he and the bearer gained the loft. A strange silence reigned. The assailants seemed to have drawn off.It was a breathing space, and surely these needed it. The excitement and energetic action brought a relapse. So sudden was the change from a quiet ordinary leave taking to this hell of combat and bloodshed, that it told upon the nerves more than upon the physical resources. Then, too, they could sum up their position. Here they were beyond all possibility of relief. It was only three o’clock in the afternoon. No train would be due at Mehriâb until eleven the next morning. Meanwhile these bloodthirsty barbarians would stick at nothing to reach their victims. These were cut off from human aid as entirely, to all intents and purposes, as though thousands of miles within the interior of Africa instead of in the heart of a theoretically peaceful country, over which waved the British flag.“If only the telegraph clerk had been able to send a wire,” said the Colonel. “But even if the poor devil wasn’t cut down at the start, he’d have been in too big a scare to be able to put his dots and dashes together.”Suddenly, with an appalling clatter, two or three logs were hurled through the window on to the floor of the waiting room below. Then some more, followed by a splash of liquid and a tin can. But the throwers did not show.“By the Lord, they are going to try burning us out,” said Campian, in a low tone, watching the while for an enemy to show himself.Then came more logs. They were old sleepers which had been piled up beside the line, and were as dry as lucifer matches. On to them came a great heap of tattered paper—the return forms and books found in the station offices. The assailants could load up a great pyre thus without incurring the slightest risk to themselves—could set it alight, too. That was what came of the British way of doing things—a heavily armoured and loop-holed door, and, alongside of it, an open and entirely unprotected window. Truly Upward had been right when he conjectured the Russians would have had a different way. No nation under the sun is more wedded to shortsightedness and red tape than that which is traditionally supposed to rule the waves.Now indeed a feeling of blank despair came into the hearts of at any rate two out of the four as they watched these preparations. Vivien, fortunately, could not see them, for with splendid patience she sat quite still, and refrained from hampering her defenders, even with useless questions. The reek of paraffin rose up strong and sickening. The assailants had flung another can of it upon the pile of combustibles. All this they could do without exposing themselves in the least.“Heavens I are we to be roasted or smoked in a hole?” growled the Colonel. “Cannot we cut our way through?”Campian said nothing. His thoughts were too bitter. He had some belief that these barbarians would not harm Vivien. But death had never been less welcome than at that moment.“Could we not propose terms to them, Colonel? Offer a big ransom, say?”“Nothing like trying. Der’ Ali, ask thebudmâsheshow many rupees they want to clear out and leave us alone.”The bearer, who spoke Baluchi well, did as he was told. The reply came sharp and decided. “Not any.”“Try again, Der’ Ali. Tell the fools they’ll be none the better for killing us, and we’ll promise to do nothing towards having them caught. In fact, promise them anything.”Then Der’ Ali, who was no fool, put the offer before them in its most tempting light. Everyone knew the Colonel Sahib. His word had never been broken, why should it be this time? The rupees would make them rich men for life, and would be paid with all secrecy. A Moslem himself, Der’ Ali quoted the Korân voluminously. It was not for themselves that they feared death, it was on account of the mem-sahib, for if they were slain what would become of her? And what said the Holy Korân? “If ye be kind towards women, and fear to wrong them, God is well acquainted with what ye do.”For a time there was silence. The suspense of the beleaguered ones was terrible. Then the reply came.“If the Colonel Sahib would give his promise to pay over the sum of five thousand rupees to an accredited messenger at a certain spot in eight days’ time he and the mem-sahib and their servant should be spared. But the other sahib must come down and deliver himself into their hands.”“That’s all right,” said Campian cheerfully, when this had been rendered. “They want me as a hostage. Things are looking up. When they finger the rhino they’ll turn me adrift again, and meanwhile I shall see something of the inner life of the wily Baluch.”“Tell them we’ll double the sum if they let all four of us go,” said the Colonel.Der’ Ali put this, but the reply of the leader was again prompt and decided. It was in the negative. The other sahib must come and deliver himself into their hands.“The question is, can we trust them?” said the Colonel. “Will they keep to their conditions in any case? Once we are out of this we are at their mercy.”“Are we less so here?” said Campian. “A match put to that nice little pile and we shall be smoked or roasted in no time. No. Strike while the iron’s hot, say I. Der’ Ali, make them swear by all that they hold sacred to keep faith with us, and then I’ll come down.”“Who is your leader, brothers?” called out the bearer.“I, Ihalil Mohammed Khan,” returned the same deep voice that had before spoken.Then Der’ Ali put to him the most binding oath he could call to mind, and Ihalil accepted it without hesitation. He bound himself by all the virtues of the Prophet, by the Korân, and by the holy Caaba, faithfully to observe the conditions he had laid down—in short, he almost swore too much.“Say we accept, Der’ Ali. I’m coming down.”“God bless you, my boy,” said the Colonel, as he wrung the other’s hand in farewell. “If it was only ourselves, I’d say let’s all hang together. But for Vivien’s sake. There, good-bye.”“Rather—so long, we’ll say,” was the cheerful reply. “I’ll show up again in a few days.”Vivien said nothing. A silent pressure of the hands was the extent to which she could trust herself.For all his assumed cheerfulness it was a critical moment for Campian, as once more he stood upon the floor of the waiting room, and, stumbling over the heaped-up combustibles, stepped outside into the full glare of daylight. His nerves were at their highest tension. The chances that he would be cut to pieces or not the moment he showed his face were about even. As in a flash, that question as to whether he was ever afraid of anything darted through his mind. At that moment he was conscious of feeling most horribly and unheroically afraid.No one would have thought it to look at him, though—certainly not those into whose midst he now stepped.“Salaam, brothers!” he said in Hindustani, with a glance at the ring of shaggy scowling faces which hemmed him in.The salute was sullenly returned, and then Ihalil, beckoning him to follow, led the way down the platform, surrounded by the whole party. They passed the body of the murdered policeman and that of the stationmaster, and at these some of the barbarians turned to spit, with muttered curses; and the platform, smeared and splattered with blood, was like the floor of a slaughter-house. Even the dirty white garments of the murderers were splashed with it.Out through the gate at the end of the platform they went. Heavens, was the whole thing a dream—a nightmare? Why, it was less than an hour ago they had entered that gate all so light hearted and unthinking. He remembered thebadinagehe had been exchanging with Nesta as they passed in through it—and more than one reference as to meeting in Shâlalai in a week or two. Now—who could say whether he would meet anybody again—in a week or two or ever? And then his sight fell upon that which caused him well nigh to give up hope.In the shade before the station master’s private quarters, a man was squatting—a wild, fierce-looking Baluchi. Before him the whole party now halted, treating him as with the deference due to a leader. But one glance at the grim, cruel face and eagle beak, and shaggy knotted brows, sufficed. In him Campian recognised the man who had scowled so demoniacally upon him in the retinue of the Marri sirdar—the man he had wounded and lamed for life when set upon by the Ghazis in the Kachîn valley. And this man was no other than the celebrated outlaw Umar Khan, and now, he was his prisoner.And at that very moment it occurred to those left behind in the loft that any sort of stipulation as to the said prisoner being returned unharmed on the payment of the sum agreed upon had been entirely left out of the covenant.

Meanwhile those in the waiting room were doing all they could to make good their position, and that was not much. Their first attempt at forcing an entrance having failed, the four Marris had rushed among their countrymen who had firearms, striving to bring them against the door in force, or rake the room with a volley through the window, but their attention at the time was taken up with other matters, which afforded the beleaguered ones a brief respite.

“Non-combatants up here,” said Campian, pointing to the ladder and the trap door which has been mentioned. “Isn’t that the order, Colonel?”

“Yes, certainly. Up you go, Vivien.”

But Vivien refused to stir.

“I can do something at close quarters, too,” she said, drawing her revolver.

“Give it to me. I’ve not got mine with me. Now—go upstairs.”

“I may be of use here. Here’s the pistol, though,” handing it over.

“Will you obey orders, Viv? What sort of a soldier’s niece are you?”

“Do go,” said Campian, looking at her. “Well, I will, then.”

As she ascended the iron ladder Campian followed her up, under pretext of aiding her. In reality he managed so he should serve to screen her from any shot that might be fired, for the ladder was in full view of the window.

“I know why you came up behind me,” she whispered as she gained the loft. “It was to shield me in case they fired.”

Then, before he had time to begin his descent, she bent her head and kissed him, full on the lips.

Not a word did he speak as he went down that ladder again. The blood thrilled and tingled through his frame. Not all the fury of fanaticism which spurred the Ghazis on to mania could surpass the exaltation of fearlessness which was upon him as he tried to treasure up the warm sweetness of that kiss—and after five years!

“Campian, confound it! We have only a dozen shots among us,” growled the Colonel. “What an ass I am to go about without a pistol.”

“We can do a lot with a dozen shots. And Der’ Ali has his tulwar.”

Der’ Ali was the Colonel’s bearer, who had been within at the time of the onslaught. He had been a trooper in his master’s old regiment, and they had seen service together on more than one occasion. What had become of the two syces and the forest guard, who were outside, they did not then know, for then the whole volume of the savage fanatics came surging up to the door. In their frenzy they fired wild shots at the solid iron plates.

“Tell them, Der’ Ali,” growled Colonel Jermyn, in Hindustani, “that they had better clear out and leave us alone. TheSirkârwill hang every man Jack of their tribe if they interfere with us. And the first man in here we’ll shoot dead; and the rest of them to follow.”

The bearer, who understood Baluchi well, rendered this, not minimising the resource and resolution of those within as he did so. A wild yell greeted his words. Then one, more frenzied or enterprising than the rest, pushed his rifle through the window, and the smashing of glass mingled with the report as he blazed into the room. But those within were up to that move. The window being on a line with the door, they had only to flatten themselves against the wall, and the bullet smashed harmless.

Then there was a rush on the window. Two men crashed through, badly cut by the glass. Before they could recover themselves they were shot dead. Even Campian’s wretched stores revolver did its work on this occasion. That halted the rest—for the moment.

Only for the moment. By a rapid movement, crawling beneath the level of the window sill, several managed to discharge their rifles well into the room. Narrowly the bullets missed the defenders.

“Look here. This is getting hot,” growled the Colonel. “Let’s give them one more volley and go into the loft. There one of us can hold the place for ever against the crowd.”

Campian had his doubts about the strategical wisdom of this. However, just then there was another rush through the window, and this time his revolver jammed. Outside were thirty furious Ghazis, urging each other on with wild fanatical yells. If they two were cut down what of Vivien? That decided him. She could hold that trap door against the crowd.

“All right, Colonel. Up you go. I and Der’ Ali will hold the window.”

“You and Der’ Ali be damned,” growled the staunch old veteran. “Obey orders, sir.”

“No, no. You forget I’m only a civilian, and not under orders. And—you must be with Vivien.”

No time was this for conventionalities, but even then the old man remembered the evening of the earthquake. “Well, I’ll cover your retreat from the ladder,” he said, and up he went.

Campian, by a wrench, brought the cylinder of his weapon round. Then, sighting the head of a Ghazi thrust prominently forward, he let go. It was a miss, but a near one. Under cover of it both he and the bearer gained the loft. A strange silence reigned. The assailants seemed to have drawn off.

It was a breathing space, and surely these needed it. The excitement and energetic action brought a relapse. So sudden was the change from a quiet ordinary leave taking to this hell of combat and bloodshed, that it told upon the nerves more than upon the physical resources. Then, too, they could sum up their position. Here they were beyond all possibility of relief. It was only three o’clock in the afternoon. No train would be due at Mehriâb until eleven the next morning. Meanwhile these bloodthirsty barbarians would stick at nothing to reach their victims. These were cut off from human aid as entirely, to all intents and purposes, as though thousands of miles within the interior of Africa instead of in the heart of a theoretically peaceful country, over which waved the British flag.

“If only the telegraph clerk had been able to send a wire,” said the Colonel. “But even if the poor devil wasn’t cut down at the start, he’d have been in too big a scare to be able to put his dots and dashes together.”

Suddenly, with an appalling clatter, two or three logs were hurled through the window on to the floor of the waiting room below. Then some more, followed by a splash of liquid and a tin can. But the throwers did not show.

“By the Lord, they are going to try burning us out,” said Campian, in a low tone, watching the while for an enemy to show himself.

Then came more logs. They were old sleepers which had been piled up beside the line, and were as dry as lucifer matches. On to them came a great heap of tattered paper—the return forms and books found in the station offices. The assailants could load up a great pyre thus without incurring the slightest risk to themselves—could set it alight, too. That was what came of the British way of doing things—a heavily armoured and loop-holed door, and, alongside of it, an open and entirely unprotected window. Truly Upward had been right when he conjectured the Russians would have had a different way. No nation under the sun is more wedded to shortsightedness and red tape than that which is traditionally supposed to rule the waves.

Now indeed a feeling of blank despair came into the hearts of at any rate two out of the four as they watched these preparations. Vivien, fortunately, could not see them, for with splendid patience she sat quite still, and refrained from hampering her defenders, even with useless questions. The reek of paraffin rose up strong and sickening. The assailants had flung another can of it upon the pile of combustibles. All this they could do without exposing themselves in the least.

“Heavens I are we to be roasted or smoked in a hole?” growled the Colonel. “Cannot we cut our way through?”

Campian said nothing. His thoughts were too bitter. He had some belief that these barbarians would not harm Vivien. But death had never been less welcome than at that moment.

“Could we not propose terms to them, Colonel? Offer a big ransom, say?”

“Nothing like trying. Der’ Ali, ask thebudmâsheshow many rupees they want to clear out and leave us alone.”

The bearer, who spoke Baluchi well, did as he was told. The reply came sharp and decided. “Not any.”

“Try again, Der’ Ali. Tell the fools they’ll be none the better for killing us, and we’ll promise to do nothing towards having them caught. In fact, promise them anything.”

Then Der’ Ali, who was no fool, put the offer before them in its most tempting light. Everyone knew the Colonel Sahib. His word had never been broken, why should it be this time? The rupees would make them rich men for life, and would be paid with all secrecy. A Moslem himself, Der’ Ali quoted the Korân voluminously. It was not for themselves that they feared death, it was on account of the mem-sahib, for if they were slain what would become of her? And what said the Holy Korân? “If ye be kind towards women, and fear to wrong them, God is well acquainted with what ye do.”

For a time there was silence. The suspense of the beleaguered ones was terrible. Then the reply came.

“If the Colonel Sahib would give his promise to pay over the sum of five thousand rupees to an accredited messenger at a certain spot in eight days’ time he and the mem-sahib and their servant should be spared. But the other sahib must come down and deliver himself into their hands.”

“That’s all right,” said Campian cheerfully, when this had been rendered. “They want me as a hostage. Things are looking up. When they finger the rhino they’ll turn me adrift again, and meanwhile I shall see something of the inner life of the wily Baluch.”

“Tell them we’ll double the sum if they let all four of us go,” said the Colonel.

Der’ Ali put this, but the reply of the leader was again prompt and decided. It was in the negative. The other sahib must come and deliver himself into their hands.

“The question is, can we trust them?” said the Colonel. “Will they keep to their conditions in any case? Once we are out of this we are at their mercy.”

“Are we less so here?” said Campian. “A match put to that nice little pile and we shall be smoked or roasted in no time. No. Strike while the iron’s hot, say I. Der’ Ali, make them swear by all that they hold sacred to keep faith with us, and then I’ll come down.”

“Who is your leader, brothers?” called out the bearer.

“I, Ihalil Mohammed Khan,” returned the same deep voice that had before spoken.

Then Der’ Ali put to him the most binding oath he could call to mind, and Ihalil accepted it without hesitation. He bound himself by all the virtues of the Prophet, by the Korân, and by the holy Caaba, faithfully to observe the conditions he had laid down—in short, he almost swore too much.

“Say we accept, Der’ Ali. I’m coming down.”

“God bless you, my boy,” said the Colonel, as he wrung the other’s hand in farewell. “If it was only ourselves, I’d say let’s all hang together. But for Vivien’s sake. There, good-bye.”

“Rather—so long, we’ll say,” was the cheerful reply. “I’ll show up again in a few days.”

Vivien said nothing. A silent pressure of the hands was the extent to which she could trust herself.

For all his assumed cheerfulness it was a critical moment for Campian, as once more he stood upon the floor of the waiting room, and, stumbling over the heaped-up combustibles, stepped outside into the full glare of daylight. His nerves were at their highest tension. The chances that he would be cut to pieces or not the moment he showed his face were about even. As in a flash, that question as to whether he was ever afraid of anything darted through his mind. At that moment he was conscious of feeling most horribly and unheroically afraid.

No one would have thought it to look at him, though—certainly not those into whose midst he now stepped.

“Salaam, brothers!” he said in Hindustani, with a glance at the ring of shaggy scowling faces which hemmed him in.

The salute was sullenly returned, and then Ihalil, beckoning him to follow, led the way down the platform, surrounded by the whole party. They passed the body of the murdered policeman and that of the stationmaster, and at these some of the barbarians turned to spit, with muttered curses; and the platform, smeared and splattered with blood, was like the floor of a slaughter-house. Even the dirty white garments of the murderers were splashed with it.

Out through the gate at the end of the platform they went. Heavens, was the whole thing a dream—a nightmare? Why, it was less than an hour ago they had entered that gate all so light hearted and unthinking. He remembered thebadinagehe had been exchanging with Nesta as they passed in through it—and more than one reference as to meeting in Shâlalai in a week or two. Now—who could say whether he would meet anybody again—in a week or two or ever? And then his sight fell upon that which caused him well nigh to give up hope.

In the shade before the station master’s private quarters, a man was squatting—a wild, fierce-looking Baluchi. Before him the whole party now halted, treating him as with the deference due to a leader. But one glance at the grim, cruel face and eagle beak, and shaggy knotted brows, sufficed. In him Campian recognised the man who had scowled so demoniacally upon him in the retinue of the Marri sirdar—the man he had wounded and lamed for life when set upon by the Ghazis in the Kachîn valley. And this man was no other than the celebrated outlaw Umar Khan, and now, he was his prisoner.

And at that very moment it occurred to those left behind in the loft that any sort of stipulation as to the said prisoner being returned unharmed on the payment of the sum agreed upon had been entirely left out of the covenant.

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