Hector Graeme

HECTOR GRAEME

BY EVELYN BRENTWOOD

TORONTO: BELL & COCKBURN
LONDON: JOHN LANE MCMXII

THE ANCHOR PRESS LTD., TIPTREE, ESSEX

HECTOR GRAEME

BOOK I

Hector Graeme

CHAPTER I

The dull November afternoon was fast drawing to a close. Patches of white mist lay in the hollows of the elm-dotted park; the outlines of stately tree and russet copse were rapidly merging into the surrounding grey.

Already a flicker of light was beginning to appear in the windows of Radford Hall, the home of Sir Thomas Caldwell, Baronet, a house—like its owner—solid, sturdy, and unimaginative-looking. Nearly a mile away, standing well back from a high ragged hedge of blackthorn, a line of sportsmen could be seen waiting for the last drive of the day to commence; behind each stood the waiting figure of a loader, ready with the second gun. Listless and inactive as were now these figures, they would shortly become possessed of a feverish energy; for in the turnip-field beyond the blackthorn hedge were many partridges, and, struggle later as they might with obstinate cartridges, their movements would be far too slow for their impatient masters, who with gun discharged would view, in helpless wrath, the easiest of shots pass unscathed overhead.

At one end of the line, comfortably seated on a grouse-stick, a young man was waiting with the rest. He was a young man whose face wore a look of great conceit, this appearance being enhanced by a somewhat pronounced eccentricity of attire. There was something about this youth that struck the observer as unusual; he was in some indescribable manner different from his fellows, though to the majority of mankind it must be owned the difference was not of a pleasing kind. This gentleman was Lieutenant Hector Graeme, senior subaltern of Her Majesty's 1st Regiment of Lancers, now on foreign service in India. In accordance with his usual habit of evading his duties—or so said his enemies, among whom might be included the greater part of his brother officers—Graeme had been successful in dodging the troopship; and, having been left behind with the depot at Canterbury, was on leave from that place and staying as a guest at Radford Hall, Sir Thomas being an old friend of his father's.

Standing behind him—for the idea of yielding up his seat had somehow not occurred to him—was Lucy Caldwell, Sir Thomas' only daughter and the mistress of his household, he having been a widower for many years. In her hand she was holding Hector's second gun, her obvious intention being to act as loader to the fortunate subaltern. This, it may be remarked, was a task Lucy was thoroughly capable of performing, the young lady having been born and bred amongst sportsmen; indeed, there was little concerning beasts and birds of the field with which she was not thoroughly familiar.

At the present moment, however, there was a somewhat annoyed expression on her usually good-tempered face, and her brow was knit as she stood listening to the shrill "tirwit, tirwit," rising from the turnip-field.

"Most provoking you should have the worst place for this drive, Mr. Graeme," she said at length; "it will be the best of the day, I know, and the birds always fly over the centre and right."

"Don't you worry about that, Miss Caldwell," answered Hector; "it's the luck of the draw; and anyway the birds will come to me all right, you see if they don't."

"Indeed they will not; they'll make for that field of roots over there, they always do."

"Not this time, I think. Birds are curious things; they like coming to the best shot; and that I am, here anyway. Gad, I don't believe I could miss to-day. Confess, Miss Caldwell, you don't often see such shooting as mine, now do you?"

Lucy frowned. She had been taught to look upon bragging of any sort as an impossible thing, and the remark jarred.

"Of course you're a good shot, Mr. Graeme," she said rather coldly; "but it's hardly necessary to proclaim the fact, is it? As for the birds coming to you, you may know better than I do. I've lived here twenty-one years, it's true, but——"

A sudden whir of wings cut her short, and away past Graeme sped an old French partridge, which was out of sight in the dusk behind before he had time to raise his gun.

"Damn!" said Hector, "what did I tell you? Beg pardon, Miss Caldwell, but that's rather annoying, an old Frenchman too; probably played that game many times before. Clean defeat, and I don't like it. Hullo, they've started," as through a gap in the hedge before them a distant line of white flags could be seen advancing. "Now, be quiet, like a good girl, and I promise you some fancy shooting."

"Over," "over," came faintly from the advancing flags, followed some seconds later by a humming sound, rapidly growing louder, till with a roar a large covey of birds topped the blackthorn hedge, and then, seeing Graeme, broke up and scattered in all directions. A breathless moment followed, the air resounding with the crack of guns and whirring of wings, and then silence.

"How many down, Mr. Graeme?" gasped Lucy, struggling with a stuck cartridge.

"Three, for goodness' sake keep count or we shan't know where we are. Notice that last shot of mine, by the way? Sixty yards at least, and stone dead. No. Pity. Look out, there are more coming, straight to me as usual." Another right and left. "Oh, please be quicker. Damn, my guns are getting red hot. See these four coming? I'll have 'em all, hanged if I don't." Two double shots followed, and then a cry of exultation. "Done it, by the Lord! What price De Grey now? I told you I couldn't miss. Only hope the others are looking, particularly old Persian War. Wish he was next me; I'd give a fiver to wipe his eye. How many down? Thirty I make it."

"Twenty-seven, Mr. Graeme, one a runner."

"Runner, not it. I'm not dealing in runners to-day. All dead as stones. There are two more for you," as a brace came swinging over and were promptly crumpled up dead in the air. "That makes twenty-nine by your counting, thirty-two by mine. Hang! here are the beaters, and the day's over. How many down, Fox?" to a keeper who had now come up. "Thirty-two all dead."

"Gum, but that's good shooting," answered Fox, while a murmur of approbation arose from a cluster of smock-frocked beaters. "Thought I saw someone a-cutting of 'em down, sir, and I said as 'ow I thought it must be the Captain. Only 'ope the other gentlemen 'ave done as well. Hi, Rover, seek lost, good dawg, good dawg. Ah, drop it, now, would you? Oh, thankye, sir, thankye very much," and the tactful Fox's hand closed on a five-pound note, a golden sovereign being likewise bestowed on the cluster of approving smock-frocks.

The courtiers thus rewarded, Graeme turned to Lucy. "And now we'll walk home across the park," he said; "no use waiting for the waggonette, what do you say, Miss Caldwell?"

"I don't think I will, Mr. Graeme. You go if you like. I must get back to make the tea. You know what my uncle is, if he's kept waiting."

"Do him good; he's a great deal too autocratic that old uncle of yours; thinks he's still commanding troops in Bugglaboo, or whatever his infernal Indian station was."

"Mr. Graeme!"

"Beg pardon, Miss Caldwell, but never mind him. Come along, we'll be home as soon as they are if we start now."

Lucy hesitated. She wanted to go, and for that very reason, being a woman, pretended she did not. The idea, moreover, though pleasing, was nevertheless in some unaccountable way rather alarming; for though ordinarily a walk home with one of her father's guests, however late the hour, would have caused her no qualms, with Graeme, it was different. She had known him but three weeks, and yet in that short time he had come to occupy a place in her thoughts, and, what was worse, to control her actions in a manner most disquieting to a girl as independent and freedom-loving as Lucy Caldwell. This too in spite of the fact that both her father and uncle, the General, had little liking for Mr. Graeme, and were, she knew, secretly rejoicing in the knowledge that he was leaving Radford Hall next day. Hector also was aware of this, and of the feelings of the rest of the house-party; but, having been accustomed to unpopularity since his childhood, their hostility disturbed him not at all.

"Better come, Miss Caldwell," he urged. "See, they'll be ages before they start. It's my last evening here too; I think you might."

Upon which Lucy decided that her reluctance was both prudish and absurd.

"Very well, Mr. Graeme," she answered; "just wait a minute, though, and I'll ask Mr. Robson to let my father know." This done, the two started on their walk, Lucy setting the pace, which was that of a good four miles an hour.

"Where's Lucy, Tom?" said the General, some ten minutes later, as, the bag having been inspected, the two moved off towards the waiting waggonette.

"She'll be here in a minute; she was down at the other end of the line. The last I saw of her she was helping Graeme to collect his birds. Gad, that fellow can shoot, Charles, quite like one of those fellows you read about in the Badminton Library."

"Yes, and we shall hear all about it to-night too—every blessed shot he made, and why he missed. Conceited, bumptious jackanapes."

"Curious thing old Jack Graeme having a son like that, one of the best, old Jack. Must take after his mother, I suppose, she was a queer wild sort—wrong too."

"He's not Jack's son at all; you know that well enough, Tom. Crawford was this fellow's father."

"Surely, you don't believe that old scandal, Charles?"

"Of course I do, this fellow's the dead spit of Crawford. The only difference between them is that he was a devilish good soldier, one of the best we had in the army. I didn't like the fellow, but I'll say that for him. This chap, though, is a waster, so his regiment say. They can't stand him there, and that, as you know, Tom, is a bad sign, a damn bad sign."

"I hope Lucy hasn't taken a fancy to him. It's worrying me a lot, Charles."

"Not she, she's far too sensible. If she did, we'd have to stop it, that's all. I tell you, Tom, I'd sooner see the girl in a convent, or—yes, I would—dead, begad, than see her married to that fellow."

"Oh come, Charles."

"Yes, I would. There's something wrong about the chap; he sets me all on edge; he—— Hullo, Robson, seen my niece?"

"She's walking home with Graeme, General, asked me to let you know. She said she'd be at the house before the waggonette."

"Oh!" said Sir Thomas.

"Damn!" muttered the General.

* * * * *

Meantime the pair under discussion were making their way homewards across the park, Lucy rather silent, Hector discoursing on Hector and that person's recent achievements. He was feeling particularly pleased with himself this evening, and, as a result, more than a little kindly towards his companion. At length, even the topic of self was exhausted, and a sudden rather awkward pause ensued, whereupon Lucy managed to find her voice.

"When do you expect to join your regiment in India, Mr. Graeme," she said, "soon, I suppose, now? How you must be looking forward to it."

Graeme's face clouded. "Next September, I believe, that is, if I do go out. Don't think I shall, though, I've more than half a mind to send in my papers and cut the whole show."

"Surely not, Mr. Graeme, at your age. What on earth would you do with yourself? You couldn't idle for the rest of your life."

"Couldn't I? I could idle very well, Miss Caldwell, besides, I should always find plenty to do with shooting, hunting, and golf. Those are my interests, and pretty good ones too, I think."

"But surely a mere life of sport wouldn't content you. Don't you want to get on in your profession? Really, Mr. Graeme, I cannot understand a man holding such views."

"Perhaps not, but it's a fact all the same. I've no wish to get on, as you call it, indeed I loathe soldiering. What's the good of it after all, what can it lead to? I've no doubt if I chose I could be as good a soldier as any of them, but I don't choose. It's a life of slavery, the army, it's being at the beck and call of every silly fool who happens to have more gold lace on his hat than you have; and then the end—to become a general, a snuffy, purple-faced old ass, like——"

"Like whom, Mr. Graeme?"

"Oh, like Grampus, my present lord at Canterbury, who, when he gives a luncheon party, has the lot of us strutting past him on foot parade to show his importance and amuse his lady friends."

"But all generals are not like that, Mr. Graeme."

"All I've met. It's a natural consequence too, I suppose. When a man's young and in full possession of his faculties he's only a humble captain or major, but as he approaches imbecility he rises in rank, till in the height of senile decay he becomes a general."

"Mr. Graeme, you forget, I think, that my uncle's a——"

"He, of course, is one of the exceptions you just mentioned," said Hector with a rather nasty chuckle.

"Mr. Graeme, you're horrid; I don't wonder people dislike you."

"More do I, though perhaps if you'd been brought up as I have you'd be horrid too."

"What do you mean?"

Graeme hesitated for a moment, frowning, and then burst out, with a ring of passion in his voice:

"You've had a happy life. Miss Caldwell, parents who have been parents, I've not. My father, for some reason, would never look at me, while my mother alternately petted and neglected me. She was a queer being, my mother, mad on spiritualism and such like, and what's more used to drag me into her experiments. She said I was clairvoyant."

"Good heavens, Mr. Graeme, what an awful thing for a woman to do. I beg your pardon; I forget it's your mother I'm speaking of."

"Say what you like; I don't care. I hated her when she was alive, and do now she's dead. It's played the devil with me, Miss Caldwell. I used to lie awake at night often and shriek with terror, and I'm not much better now at times. That's the way I was brought up, nobody to care twopence about me; and gradually I got not to care too, till now I think I hate everybody just as they do me."

"Oh, surely, not everybody," began Lucy, and then stopped suddenly. At something in her voice, Graeme turned and looked at her, a queer thrill of excitement running through him. He tried to see her face, but it was turned from him; the feeling of excitement grew, and his heart began to beat fast.

For some time he too had been conscious of a growing feeling of attraction towards this girl; more, he felt himself to be in love with her—a not unusual experience, by the way, for Hector, to whom all feminine creatures were as magnets to his iron. This feeling, however, though materially contributing to the enjoyment of the past three weeks, had hitherto not been regarded by him as serious, indeed, the idea of proposing to Lucy Caldwell had never once presented itself to him. Now the charms of such a proceeding suddenly occurred to him. The isolation, in which he had hitherto gloried, seemed no longer desirable but hateful, and with this came a sudden longing for sympathy and the love denied him in his childhood. It would be glorious, he thought, to have someone to care for him; to be interested in what he did, to have a home of his own instead of the Mess, which he hated; and straightway Hector made up his mind to do it, and, flinging prudence to the winds, spoke.

"Miss Caldwell, Lucy, is there anyone who cares?"

"I—I shouldn't think so. I—I don't know."

"Do you care?—because I do. I—I love you most—damnably."

"Most damnably?"

"Yes, and if you'll marry me—I've meant to ask you for a long time, but I've funked it before. I'm not much of a catch, I know. I'll try and be different. I could be, I think, if you took me in hand. For God's sake say you will, Lucy."

"But are you sure, Hector? Do you really mean it? Oh, I never said you might, and look, there's an owl flown by; he saw us, I know he did. You might have waited till he'd gone. He has gone now, Hector."

* * * * *

The four miles an hour dwindled down to a bare half. The darkness deepened, owing to which possibly they lost their way, turning east instead of west. Away from the Hall they wandered, oblivious of a purple-faced gentleman who was awaiting them there, and whose wrath was rapidly rising as he viewed the still mistressless tea-table.

CHAPTER II

The fair valley of Kashmir lay drowsing in the August sunshine—a strip of green and gold nestling amid a waste of rocky mountains. All around rose the great hills, bare and sun-scorched for the most part towards the west and south—at which point enters the main road from India—but to the east draped with heavy mantles of fir and towering pine; far away, a glittering rampart of eternal snow and ice, the great mass of the Himalayas barred the way to the north, its jagged peaks and saw-like ridges fretting the deep cloudless blue of the sky.

Over the valley itself, now a riotous waste of colour, hung a shimmering vale of heat; through the warm heavy air, drowsy with the perfume of a thousand blossoms, gaudy dragon-flies darted to and fro, or hung poised with tremulous vibration of gauzy wings; while here and there orange and purple butterflies drifted lazily from flower to flower. Tiny rivulets murmured sleepily, as they threaded their way through woods of chestnut, apple and pear, interspersed with patches of golden millet and Indian corn, the sole worldly wealth of some Kashmiri husbandman, the roof of whose hut might be seen peering through the surrounding clump of trees.

Born in the snowy mountains to the north, the river Jhelum winds its way southwards through the centre of the valley, passing through the great lake of Kashmir, a vast sheet of burnished silver, on the still surface of which lie masses of coral-pink lotus. Onward the river crawls, lapping in sleepy caress the wooden piles and temple-steps of Srinagar, the country's capital, a ramshackle cluster of wooden, chalet-like houses, built on both sides of the river. Still half-asleep, it creeps on for some hundred miles through a land golden with crops and bright with flowers and fruit, on past Baramoula, the terminus of the tonga service from Rawal Pindi, and out by a gorge in the mountains, through which lies the road to India and the south. Then it awakes, and hemmed in by jutting crag and precipice, its course vexed by boulder and quicksand, becomes henceforth a wild torrent, roaring its way onward to Mother Indus and the sea.

Following a rough track leading eastward from Baramoula, and steadily rising as he goes, the traveller passes through some fifteen miles of thinly-wooded country, broken by fields of scanty millet and maize, till at length a large wooden temple is reached, situated in a clearing at the foot of a steep fir-clad ridge. Leaving this behind, he plunges into dense forest, and after an hour's stiff climb reaches the summit, where suddenly and unexpectedly he comes upon a native bazaar of rough wooden huts overlooking an expanse of grassy plain. Roughly circular in shape, this plain is girt on all sides with a thick belt of sombre firs, beyond which again tower the mountains. All around, either just inside the girdle of trees or at its edge, are dotted small wooden houses and clusters of white tents, while in the centre of the plain rises a large and more pretentious-looking edifice, around which one August afternoon a numerous and gaily-dressed crowd was to be seen assembled.

This is Shiraz, the hill-station of Kashmir, and here, when the valley below has become impossible owing to the heat and mosquitoes, flock the English visitors and officials of the country—both black and white. The houses and tents surrounding the plain, or Murg as it is called, are their temporary homes, while the building in the centre is the focus of Shiraz social life, serving indiscriminately as club, library, cricket or polo pavilion.

No ordinary event, however, was responsible for to-day's gathering of notabilities, no pagal gymkhana or crumpet snatch, but something much more serious, namely, the finals of the Shiraz Polo championship, and hence the brightest and best of frocks and frills were here on view, while hats and parasols were positively dazzling in their splendour.

Moreover, an additional incentive had been given to good fellowship, for was not Lady Wilford, the wife of Sir Reginald Wilford, K.C.S.I., K.C.I.E. etc, etc., and present Resident of Kashmir, At Home this August afternoon? And no experienced Anglo-Indian lady will, as is well known, forego the delights of a free tea, nor for that matter, of any entertainment, for which someone else pays. Indeed, even one modest rupee gate money has been known in that country to frighten away the fair sex altogether from race-meetings, gymkhana or polo match. To-day, however, there was no such vexatious bar to pleasure, and hence it came about that all was light-hearted enjoyment and hilarity.

Mrs. Twiddell, wife of Major Twiddell of the Supply and Transport Corps, now absent in the plains, looked radiant as she chattered away to her best friend, Mrs. Passy Snorter. True, she had a grievance, though you might not have thought it, the said grievance being the reason that necessitated the wearing of her present attire of pink, instead of one of the ravishing confections of which she had so often made mention.

"Looks charming?" she said prettily, "sweet of you to try and comfort me, dear; it's Paris I know, but such a rag now, poor old pink. So annoying of my husband not to send my boxes up in time;" and her friend, as she sympathetically agreed, wondered how dear Mrs. T. could be such a liar, for had not she—and for that matter all Shiraz—observed the lady's dhirzi[#] stitching away at the despised pink for the last three days in the Twiddell verandah? She could even have told to an anna what the said garment had cost, and the wrangle there had been over the price. She further wondered, incidentally, whether Jack Twiddell had yet paid his club bill at Riwala, for Mrs. Snorter's husband was the secretary of that institution, and told his wife many valuable secrets anent mutual friends.

[#] Native tailor.

Lieutenant Crawler of the 1st Kala Jugas was evidently in his element as, blade of grass in mouth, he discoursed on the merits of the rival teams. Crawler, it is true, bestrode a pony for the first time in his life six months ago on joining his regiment, but he had a good deal to say on the subject of horsemanship, and was expressing his doubts as to the "hands" of most of the competitors. He went on to compare polo with hunting, and indulged in personal reminiscences of the Quorn and Pytchley, of which packs he had read in the papers. Important-looking officials for the nonce laid aside cares of State, and turned condescending ear to the trivial discourse of military acquaintances, or beamed seductively on feminine admirers. The Maharajah Sahib, his retinue of sable followers grouped around him, looked calmly on the scene, now and again bending courteously to some female flatterer, the expression in his dark eyes contrasting strangely with his respectful, almost humble, salutations.

There was a stir—and sudden commotion amongst the crowd. Polo was about to begin, and away surged the chattering throng, making hurriedly for the rows of chairs lining one side of the ground.

The game to be played this afternoon promised to be an exciting one, the rival players being a scratch quartette, calling themselves the Dragon Flies, and four of the 1st Lancers who happened to be in Shiraz on leave. The Lancers were in no sense representative of their corps, one of their number only, Ferrers, the captain, being a member of the regular regimental team, but, as they were better mounted than their opponents, and having had a fair amount of practice together while in Shiraz, they were quite confident of success. The other three were Kinley, Carruthers, and Graeme. The Dragon Flies, however, were opponents not to be despised. True, their ponies were slow in comparison with those of the Lancers, but against this they were handy and well trained, and knew the game as well as their owners. The men also, though hailing from different regiments, and being at the disadvantage of not knowing each other's idiosyncrasies, were with one exception individually far better players than their adversaries, Major Rocket, the captain, being generally considered one of the best Number Twos, if not the best, in India.

The above-mentioned exception was the "One"—Lieutenant Gubbins of the 105th Native Foot, who, though extremely keen, was a far from expert performer, and had a rooted aversion to keeping in his proper place. He had promised, however, on this afternoon to amend his ways, to leave the tempting ball to Number Two, and devote his energies solely to hampering the back—and these promises Gubbins, before starting, had every intention of keeping.

Some distance away from the chattering crowd, watching the saddling of a fine grey Arab pony, stood Graeme and his wife Lucy, for despite the scoffing incredulity of those who knew, or thought they knew, Hector the proposal made that November evening—nearly two years ago—had been duly ratified, and after an engagement of six months the two had been quietly married in Radford church.

There had been opposition, bitter opposition too. Sir Thomas, the General, indeed, the whole of Lucy's relations, having resolutely opposed the match. In vain, however, their efforts had merely succeeded in turning Hector's somewhat indefinite intentions into a fixed resolve. Even Lucy was surprised at the strength of purpose shown by her lover, and, warmly seconding him, between them they finally overcame her father's opposition, though never that of her uncle. The latter for a long time refused to meet Hector, and, but for the reluctance to cause pain to his niece, would undoubtedly have refused to appear at the wedding. So far, the general anticipation of disaster had been singularly at fault; the marriage had turned out a happy one, Hector proving himself a good and considerate husband, while, far from sliding back into former ways, he had flown to the other extreme and become a Puritan, bitterly intolerant of even the mildest lapse from conjugal duty. This, as might be imagined, had not served to increase his popularity, and it was almost universally agreed that, though objectionable enough before his marriage, since that event he had become altogether impossible, and great was the commiseration bestowed on that dear pretty little woman who had the misfortune to be tied to such an ill-conditioned prig.

"The dear pretty little woman," however, stood in no need of their sympathy, being, on the contrary, perfectly and entirely happy. She adored Hector, admired him for his principles, so different from those of other men, and, generally speaking, thought him the most wonderful person in the world. At the present moment she was listening with interest, her arm through his, as he discoursed on polo, more particularly on the part he was likely to take in the forthcoming contest.

Hector's love for this game, though of somewhat recent growth, had become the temporary master-passion of his existence, and to the acquirement of proficiency in it he had flung himself with the violence and concentration of purpose that were usual with him on taking up a new hobby. At home, it is true, he had shown no interest in the subject; it was a feeble game, he had been wont to declare, and one much too easy to play to be worth the learning. Since his arrival in India, however, he had come to regard the matter in a different light. Here everybody played polo; indeed, it was looked upon as the one serious business of life, bar love-making, and straightway it had become Hector's business too. Never would he admit that there could be anything in the way of sports or games at which he could not excel if he chose, and he set to work to provide himself with ponies, first-class tournament ponies too; he would look at nothing else. He had now six, bought at a price far beyond his means, the purchase of which had necessitated the assistance of Ram Lai, the native banker of Riwala, and this done, and all other pursuits abandoned for the nonce, he laid himself out to learn the game.

Henceforth his conversation, his thoughts, his very dreams were of polo, while his contempt for and intolerance of those who had no liking for the pursuit were unbounded. Morning and evening he could be seen assiduously practising shots on the disused drill-ground at the back of his Riwala bungalow, while in odd moments he would employ the saises, khitmagars, and on one occasion—though Lucy had immediately intervened—the cook, in throwing him balls from every direction, while he, astride on a wooden horse, drove the said balls all over the compound. The result of all this was on the whole gratifying, the progress he made being generally conceded to be remarkable, though this verdict was usually qualified by the remark that his proficiency was mainly due to the excellence of his ponies. "Anyone could play who was so well mounted as that bounder Graeme," men were wont to observe, for in India, even more than elsewhere, possessions in excess of one's neighbours are wont to evoke caustic remarks.

Whether this were true or not, Graeme was now able to hold his own in most companies, and was anticipating a veritable triumph this afternoon, when he intended to show the spectators how polo should be played, even though by a novice. His conversation was brought to an end by the loud ringing of a bell, followed by the appearance of Ferrers, fussy and important, summoning his men to the fray. With a hasty farewell to Lucy, and final examination of his stirrup-leathers, Hector mounted the grey pony and cantered into the field, where the rival teams were drawn up in two lines facing each other.

After some delay, owing to young Gubbins' endeavours to secure a flying start, the ball was at length thrown in between the lines by the umpire, and the battle for the Cup had begun.

Straightway arose a confused mêlée of sticks and ponies, followed by much wild hitting, much missing, and considerable dangerous riding, Graeme being neatly bowled over by Gubbins before three minutes had elapsed. All were anxious to hit the ball, no matter where, so long as they hit it, though the general tendency indubitably lay in the direction of the gallery, where the various divinities sat enthroned, watching the doings of their own particular twin souls.

For the first two chukkers there was no score, though this, it must be owned, was chiefly due to the mistaken zeal of the Dragon Flies' Number One, who, forgetful of his good intentions, persisted in trying to hit goals of which he was incapable, instead of devoting his energies to the opposing back and leaving the job to Major Rocket. Had it not been for this, the score would by this time have been very heavy against the Lancers. In the third chukker the disaster so long impending occurred. Rocket, who in the interval had spoken very seriously to Gubbins, at length secured the ball, and with a resounding smack lifted it well over the opposing back's head, when it rolled to within twenty-five yards of the Lancers' goal. Ferrers—the back in question—turned, and slipping the enemy's Number One, made for the ball and ... missed it, leaving Gubbins the chance of his life.

Exultantly the youth raised his stick, and was about to add one more to his already lengthy list of failures, when his arm was paralysed by a roar from behind of "Leave it, you infernal young idiot, leave it, out of the way, confound you!" Though hurt at being thus addressed, the more so as the opprobrious epithet must have reached the owner of a certain pink parasol in the gallery yonder, Gubbins this time managed to restrain his ardour, and obediently sheering off to one side was rewarded by hearing a good clean crack behind him, as the skilful Rocket sent the ball whizzing through the Lancers' goal-post. Instantly arose loud and prolonged applause from the excited gallery, and thus encouraged the Dragon Flies set to work with a will, and by the end of the chukker had scored again twice.

Three to love, two more chukkers to go, and their opponents flushed with success—truly, a bad business for the cavalry team; and faces were troubled and brows gloomy, as they rode slowly away to change their ponies. So far Hector had not distinguished himself. His early upset at the hands of Gubbins had ruffled him badly, and, this disaster having been followed by frequent defeats at the hands of the tricky Rocket, he had finally lost his temper in earnest, with consequent evil results to his play. The recent reverses, however, had affected him very differently from his companions. They were disheartened; he, on the contrary, was thirsting for revenge, and more than ever determined to win the contest, even if it meant the riding down of each individual member of the enemy in turn—indeed, his tactics in the last chukker had evoked more than one indignant cry of "Foul!"

He was now gloomily debating in his mind on whom to commence operations when he came upon the other three standing together, and at sight of the despondency on their faces wrath boiled up in Hector's breast.

"What the devil are you looking so sick for, all of you?" he said angrily. "What if they have got three goals, we can beat them all right. Damme, I'll give you this pony, if we don't!"

They stared at him, and, as they looked, something in his face caused theirs to brighten, and hope once more to dawn in their hearts. In the hour of adversity man will cling to the rottenest straw, but here was a rock, solid and unmoved by the seas in which they were drowning.

"What do you suggest then, Graeme?" said Ferrers, after a pause, oblivious of the fact that he, the hero of many contests, was now asking advice of a novice, of one, moreover, whom he had been wont to consider a fool, so true it is that mere skill and experience must ever bow to strength of personality.

"Do?" said Graeme, seizing the reins of government thus abandoned. "Why, go for them, attack all we know, not merely try to prevent them scoring, as we've been doing up till now. Look here, Ferrers, I'll take charge: you go up 'Two,' I'll take your place at 'Three.' Now, come on, and remember what I say. Force the game for all you're worth. Knock 'em over, doesn't matter, but win we will."

Thus saying, and without a word of protest from his erstwhile captain, Hector led the way into the field, and once more the game started; but this time a very different state of affairs was manifest. The Dragon Flies, so far from attacking now, were soon solely occupied in the endeavour to save their goal from the furious and repeated attacks of the Lancers. For some time they were successful, but the latter would not be denied, and quite outclassing their opponents at length triumphed over the defence, the goal being followed by a second, scored just as the bell rang. Two goals to three, one more chukker to go, and the excitement in the gallery rising, which excitement increased to frenzy when Carruthers in the next few minutes scored one more goal for the Lancers.

Then an unlooked-for misfortune befell them, for Gubbins, by some happy accident, managed to fluke a subsidiary, and for a moment demoralisation again hovered over the cavalry team. Graeme, however, rallied his men in time, and for a while the game surged equally backwards and forwards up the ground; but a few minutes only remained, and hope was rapidly dying in the hearts of the Lancers' supporters when the last chance arrived. Graeme slipped the opposing Number Three, and securing the ball drove it clean and hard up the ground; galloping on, he followed this up by another not quite so straight, the ball rising in the air and settling within thirty yards of the Dragon Flies' goal. There it lay, a fair white sphere, right in front of Ferrers; a possible near-side shot, but most unlikely.

With passionate, strained attention Hector watched Ferrers' approach, his whole will-power concentrated on the striker, till the surrounding world, the roar of the crowd, the thud of galloping hoofs had passed from sight and hearing, and nothing remained save that flying figure before him. "You shall not miss it," he breathed, "you shall not." He saw the uplifted arm descend, he heard a great shouting, mingled with the clang of the time-bell, and then for a moment all was darkness, till, the mists slowly lifting from his brain, he found himself alone, some fifty yards away from the ground, his pony heaving and gasping beneath him. For a moment he sat, gazing vacantly around, and then, dismounting, slipped his arm through the reins, and led the sweating beast back to the waiting sais.

No one noticed his movements, every one being too excited by the recent sensational finish, and engaged in the laudation of Ferrers, who was the hero of the hour. Justly too, for such a shot at such a crisis had never before been witnessed on the Shiraz ground. Even Crawler was mollified and expressed satisfaction with the play on the whole, though he was of opinion that the Lancers, being better mounted, ought to have won by more, and would probably have done so but for Graeme, who, he noticed, had hardly once struck the ball. He was inclined to think that Ferrers' shot was a fluke, and this remark having given rise to some difference of opinion, the hero himself was approached and asked to give an account of the circumstance. This proved somewhat vague and unsatisfactory.

"Truth is, you fellows," he said, "I really don't remember much about it. I recollect seeing the ball sittin' there, and thinking how bally awful it'd be to miss the beastly thing, and then, well, then I found I'd scored a goal. Rather extraordinary feelin' it was, couldn't do it again, I know."

"Rot, old boy," said Kinley, known in his regiment as "Porky," on account of his appearance and appetite, "of course you could do it again. Tell you what, give you a dozen tries now, and back you for a quid a time. Who'll take?"

A chorus of assent arose, for the wise always took up Porky's bets. A move was made back to the polo ground, and the ball placed in its former position, the succeeding events resulting in the speculator's return to his quarters an hour later a poorer man by twelve golden sovereigns. "Silly fool I was," he mused as he went, "but then I always am a silly fool over the bets I make."

Graeme also came in for a share of the general applause, it being agreed that he had played well; quite wonderfully for a beginner, though of course he wanted experience and knowledge of the game. Still, he had not been the weakness they expected. Ferrers went even further, declaring that Graeme had been the stay of their side, and though, when the first feelings of gratitude had worn off, he recanted somewhat, he now proclaimed the fact aloud and announced his intention of proceeding forthwith to Mrs. Graeme to inform her of his opinion. Lucy, however, was not to be found, for she had seen that to which the others were blind, and had flown forthwith across the ground to where Hector was standing slowly donning his coat and sweater.

"What is it, Hector, what's the matter?" she said, looking anxiously at the drawn haggard face and tired eyes.

"Nothing's the matter, Lucy. What should there be? I'm a bit done, that's all."

"But I saw you reel; it was just after Mr. Ferrers scored that last goal, I thought for a moment you were going to fall. Oh, this polo's too much for you, Hector."

"Fit of giddiness, that's all, I used to be subject to them, you know. I'm all right now; let's go home. What did you think of the game?"

"You played splendidly, all of you did."

"What about Ferrers' play?"

"He was wonderful, Hector, but then of course he's an old hand. When you've played as long as he has you'll be quite as good, much better, I think. But here we are at the house, I'll just ask for a brandy and soda, and then we'll go up to dress. There's a big dinner on to-night, you know. I wish there was not, I should like you to go to bed, oh, why not, Hector? I can easily arrange it with Lady Wilford."

Graeme, however, though anathematising the dinner-party, refused to retire, and an hour afterwards was seated at Sir Reginald's hospitable board, where a large and festive company was assembled, all chattering of polo and the great contest of the afternoon. Hector took little part in the conversation, but sat silent and moody, the efforts of his partner, a light-hearted grass-widow, being wholly powerless to rouse him to the smallest semblance of interest. Even Lucy, watching him in the intervals of lively play with Mr. Carruthers, at length grew indignant, as she noted his air of deep abstraction. She felt sorry for Mrs. Loveall, whose face by this time wore a look of boredom and chagrin, though it is true she would equally have hated that flirtatious lady, had Hector responded in the slightest degree to her overtures.

If he was tired, why had he not gone to bed, as she suggested? That would have been infinitely better than putting in an appearance with the sole object, it seemed, of acting as damper on the general enjoyment. The other men were no doubt tired also, but they had the manners to disguise the fact; why could not Hector be like the rest, and make an effort as they were doing? There, he was yawning; she would like to have shaken him. Graeme, however, persisted in his offence, and if he had succeeded in boring his partner, she in return had well-nigh maddened him. In fact, an almost irresistible impulse to flee was rapidly coming over him; a wild longing to escape from the lights and chattering crowd and calm his shattered nerves in the cool night air. A few minutes more, and he would have done so, but fortunately for his own and Lucy's credit the signal for release came at length; whereupon Hector sprang up, and, leaving Mrs. Loveall to find her handkerchief and other fallen trifles as best she might, made for the open window and fled out into the night, where he stood breathing deep sighs of relief. At his feet slept the now deserted Murg, glistening like some great lake in the light of the full moon. At its edge the huts and tents looked white against the background of shadowy forest and gloomy pine-clad hill, while far away a vision of unearthly beauty glittered faintly, the white splendour of the snows, a spirit city of minarets and spires in a setting of blue. Over all lay the spell of a dead world, that strange haunting influence breathed by the moon wherein two elements are commingled, seemingly apart yet inextricably interfused, the one death and the other love. For, though from a perished universe it comes, it is not gloom but passion it stirs in most human hearts, and in this alliance of Azrael and Eros can be read the great secret of the world—that death is but the passing to another birth, and, without love, birth cannot be.

It was not of the latter that Hector was thinking now, but of that something within him, revealed that afternoon—though but in a paltry game. He knew now, ignore it though he might, that he was not quite as others were, that his was that strange gift of nature—will-power, personal magnetism, call it what you please—the possession of which marks the difference between those who lead and the herd which follows. And as he stood there, with the majesty of sleeping mountain and plumed forest around him, their greatness spoke to that something within him, reproaching it, and at its voice the curious restlessness and discontent born of the afternoon's awakening swelled to a flood of bitter self-contempt. How great was all this, and how very small he and his present aims. Vague longings came over him, a desire for the unattainable, for that it surely was. He, a married man, whose course of life was chosen—a life devoted to games and sport.

For a moment the idea of studying his profession came to him, but at the thought his mind instantly revolted. The rôle of smart soldier had no charms for Graeme; that he knew required a different nature from his, an unimaginative, methodical character, one content to follow the path dictated, not to proceed to the goal by short cuts, as he had done, and always would do, to the annoyance of his military superiors. No, he would leave that to such as Ferrers and Rocket, both reckoned promising candidates for advancement, the former being Adjutant of his regiment, the latter Brigade-Major to the Inspector-General of Cavalry. They were and always would be followers; as for him, he would be leader or nothing.

Well, perhaps his chance would be given him; it always was. Even now there were rumours of trouble on the frontier, and he might be sent. He would be, he would move heaven and earth, and then... "Damn, why the devil can't they leave me alone? Who is it? Oh, you. Lucy, do you want me?"

"Yes; what an unsociable person you are to rush away like this, everybody's gone home. Oh, what a lovely night; look at that moon; it reminds me of board ship. Do you remember?"

"Ship, what ship? Oh yes, of course, exactly like. The crowd too about the same in intelligence as that lot in there."

"Why do you sneer at them, Hector, what's the matter with you this evening?"

"Oh, nothing, only I'm sick to death of this chatter of polo. Hang it, to hear them talk one would think Ferrers had won the V.C. instead of scoring a miserable goal in a match."

"Surely, Hector, it's a little small to be jealous."

"I'm not jealous, Lucy, and what seems to me small is this raving about a mere game. Hang it, there are other things in life besides polo."

Lucy was silent. Accustomed as she was to her husband's frequent changes, this was a little too sudden and unaccountable. She endeavoured to fall in with his mood, however.

"Perhaps you're right, Hector, though I don't think you're quite fair. You know, I've often wished you to take a more serious view of things, your profession, for instance, but you've always snubbed me when I began."

"Bah, my profession."

"Well, why not, surely it's a good enough one for any man? And I believe, Hector, I really do, that you could be as good a soldier as any of them if you worked, perhaps even be adjutant after Mr. Ferrers, and in time command the regiment. Oh, I should love you to command the regiment."

"And after that, Lucy?"

"Oh well, that's as high as I go. I think I should then like you to retire, and perhaps go into Parliament."

"Colonel Graeme, M.P., Lord, what dizzy heights, Lucy."

"Don't sneer, Hector, I mean it, but you'll have to work. I'll take you in hand myself when we return to Riwala. Till then you may play as much as you like. And now I've got some news for you. How would you like to shoot a bear?"

"Bear, where is he?"

"About twelve miles from here, I believe. A native's just come in to tell Sir Reginald, I don't think he much believes in the story, though; he says these Kashmiris are such liars it would be only waste of time going. Still, I think we might persuade him if you'd care for it."

"Rather, of course I would," said Hector, and perchance at the sudden return to mundane interests the great mountains and forests laughed, quietly derisive, for well they knew the resistless force of which they, like him, were but the phenomena, and how—make what plans and resolutions he may—man must dance when the master-hand chooses to pull the strings and call the tune, though till then he is seemingly free to act as he pleases. And so Hector was allowed to become his own confident self once more, and, feeling rather ashamed of his recent lapse from common sense, hurried off with Lucy to the coercion of his unwilling host.

"Oh, Sir Reginald," he said, entering the drawing-room, "my wife tells me there are bears about. Why not have a go at them to-morrow?"

"I hardly think it worth while, Graeme," said the Resident, "I don't suppose there's a bear near the place."

"Surely, the fellow wouldn't dare bring you false khubber?"[#] said Hector. "Why, I'd fine his village a hundred rupees if he did, were I the Resident."

[#] Information.

"Oh, please let's go, Sir Reginald," said Lucy. "It would be a day out whether we shot anything or not. Lady Wilford will come too, and we'll have a ripping time. I should love it."

The Resident hesitated. He knew perfectly well that what Graeme had said was true, and that no Kashmiri would have dared to bring him false information, but he had secret and most important reasons for not wishing to leave his post at the time. That morning's mail had brought in news of serious trouble on the North West Frontier, hinting, moreover, at the possibility of its being necessary to recall to their regiments all officers now on leave in Shiraz. This information, being confidential, could not be given as a reason for refusing Graeme and his wife. The latter continued to press the attack.

"I have never seen a bear except in the Zoo," she pleaded, "and I promise to be very good and quiet, and not get in the way. Oh, do go."

"I have never had a chance with that new .303 of mine," said Hector, "and I badly want to give that lazy devil of a shikari of mine something to do, and see if he's the wonder he makes himself out to be, simply eating and smoking his head off in idleness, the brute."

"My dear fellow, I should like it as much as you do, but we're rather busy in the office just now, and..."

"Why not go, Reginald?" said Lady Wilford. "It would be a day out, as Mrs. Graeme says, and anything urgent could be sent after you by a peon;[#] it's only twelve miles."

[#] Native Messenger.

The Resident capitulated straightway, as was his habit with his wife. After all, she was right, he thought, and most likely no letter of importance would come. If it did, well, his secretary could give out the necessary orders to the officers. He would chance it and go.

"Very well, my dear," he said, "if you're set upon it; only don't blame me if the bears fail to appear, that's all. I'll go now, and start off the servants with the tents, etc. You'd better go to bed at once, young lady," turning to Lucy; "we'll have to leave here by five at latest, you too, Graeme, you must be tired after your exertions to-day. By the way, Latimer," to his secretary, "you might give me a few minutes in my study, there are one or two things I want to see you about," and Sir Reginald went off to make his preparations for the morrow.

Graeme, having first inspected the aforementioned .303, proceeded to interview his shikari, to whom he imparted the unwelcome news of the forthcoming expedition. This done, he acted upon his host's advice, and, making his way to his room, was soon in bed and asleep.

CHAPTER III

Shortly after five the next morning, the party, mounted on ponies, left the lamp-lit Residency and started on their way to the village of Karin, in the vicinity of which the aforesaid bears were supposed to be awaiting them. The sun was not yet risen; the air was chill; and the sahibs sleepy and disinclined for conversation.

Close at their heels trudged the four saises, bearing their charges' blankets, while some distance in the rear stalked two dignified-looking natives, Gokal Singh, Sir Reginald's dogra orderly, and Ahmed Khan, Graeme's shikari. The latter, a man of gigantic stature and imposing appearance, was a typical specimen of the Kashmiri race.

On Graeme's arrival at Baramoula three weeks before, this worthy, recognising at a glance the green and inexperienced new-comer, had at once attached himself to Hector's retinue, and, heedless of rebuffs, had seized upon the sahib's gun-cases and started off with them in triumph to Shiraz. In vain did Graeme order him to put the guns down and be off; Ahmed Khan merely smiled and stuck sturdily to his booty.

Who did the sahib propose was to clean these weapons? he asked, marching on. Not the saises assuredly, nor the bhisti,[#] and certainly not the Presence's bearer. He appealed to the latter, who at once—satisfactory terms having been previously arranged—supported him. The Kashmiri's questions were reasonable, he declared, a shikari was a necessity to a sahib of importance; but first, why not see the man's chits,[#] for if an honest man he would doubtless have such on him, and thereupon he commanded Ahmed to produce what documents of the kind he had, and to beware of showing false ones, for, he assured his master, such things were done in Kashmir, and it behoved one to be wary.

[#] "Water-carrier.

[#] Written characters, mostly forged, from former employers.

A bundle of dirty papers was thereupon dragged to light, an examination of which proved to Hector that he had secured a treasure, for they one and all declared that, of all shikaris now in Kashmir, this one, for honesty, skill, and lion-hearted bravery, was incomparably the first. Graeme, impatient to be off, and by this time bored with the discussion, then gave in, and Ahmed secured a place, which suited him exactly. He smoked and slept all day, spent his nights in the bazaar, and left the cleaning of the guns to the sais, his sole self-imposed duty being to stand up and salute the sahib whenever he saw him, a performance which he religiously observed, and which irritated Graeme exceedingly. The present expedition, involving a departure from the daily routine, was by no means to his liking, and on receiving his orders the previous night he had at once raised objections. Right well he knew Karin, he declared, and its inhabitants, the headman especially, a liar, a very prince of liars, he was too, always deceiving sahibs by false tales of bears.

Afraid, did the Presence say, he, Ahmed Khan, afraid of a bear? How could that be, for was he not known throughout the country as a lion-hearted one, and the terror of all wild beasts? Let the Presence but deign to look at his chits once more, and forthwith his hand sought the folds of his dirty garments. The frequent production of these documents had by this time got on Graeme's nerves, and, advancing on the lion-hearted one with uplifted arm and dangerous eyes, he was about to make his meaning clearer, when Ahmed, recognising the inevitable, salaamed humbly, and with a meek "Taiyar, sahib, taiyar hojaega,"[#] proceeded, with wrath in his heart, to make preparations for the morrow. He was now morosely trudging along by the side of Gokal Singh, with whom as a Hindu dog he had nothing in common, but to whom as a soldier and man of violence he was invariably respectful.

[#] "I will be ready, sir."

For the first six or seven miles the journey lay through the dense fir and pine forest, the track winding its way along the mountain-side. Here and there the path was broken by noisy rivulets rushing down from above, nasty chasms being thus formed, bridged in the usual slack Kashmiri way by a few poles covered over with sods and brushwood. Dangerous places these for the rider, as when the brushwood rots holes are left, through which the crossing pony may chance to drop a leg. Soon, however, these and the gloomy forest were left behind and the party emerged on to an open plateau, where the full glory of a Kashmiri morning suddenly burst upon them.

Far below lay the valley, its green and gold gleaming through a veil of silver mist, which glittered and flashed like a diamond cobweb in the rays of the morning sun. To their right stretched an endless succession of mountains, the summits rising like islands through the vapour billows which swirled around them—a restless, tossing sea, now fast breaking up and melting into floating patches of white beneath the growing splendour of the sun. Far across the valley gleamed the great snow-wall of the Himalayas, now no longer spirit-haunted and visionary, but pink-flushed and radiant with the kisses of the dawn.

At the sight Lucy gave a cry of pleasure, and, moving instinctively closer to her husband, began to point out to him the various beauties thus unfolded. He was unresponsive, for once more there had stolen over him the faint melancholy of the previous night, and with it the desire for solitude and silence. He therefore assisted her to dismount—Sir Reginald had here called a halt—and muttering an excuse went to some distance, where he stood gazing towards the north.

Lucy, much hurt at his behaviour, remained for a moment looking after him, and then, with a sigh, walked slowly away to join Sir Reginald and his wife, whom she found tucked away behind a rock, whither they had betaken themselves for shelter from the breeze that blew cold and clear from the distant snows.

The Resident had not yet regained his wonted bonhomie, and was full of gloomy forebodings. He ought not to have left Shiraz, he declared; something would be certain to happen in his absence, and Latimer, though a good enough fellow in his way, was not the man to cope with unforeseen emergencies. The present expedition too was more likely than not to turn out a failure; a bear-shoot so often did. Possibly they might get a shot, but he doubted it, he very much doubted it. He only hoped there would be no mistake about breakfast. Samuel—his Madrasi butler—was not given to make a hash of things, but natives were so unreliable, and to-day somehow he had a presentiment he would. But they must be getting on, not waste time on this infernal hill, where he was rapidly freezing.

"Where's Graeme? Oh, looking at the snows, is he?—very fine, very fine indeed. Where's my sais? Abdul, you rascal, leave that stinking hubble-bubble at once, and bring my pony, the lady sahib's too. Why don't you roll karo[#] and keep them warm, instead of letting them stand in the cold while you're squatting on the ground like a damned fool? They'll get a chill now and die, and you'll be in jail khana. Serve you right. Hold his head, will you, how the devil can I get up with the brute twisting about like a top? My foot, curse it, right on my foot, you clumsy lout, and now I shan't be able to shoot. Oh, come on, come on, Sarah, you too, Mrs. Graeme, never mind about that husband of yours, he'll turn up at breakfast all right."

[#] "Walk them about."

Thus encouraged by the leader, the party, joined shortly after by Graeme, once more resumed their journey, and, the wind-swept plateau left far above and behind them, were soon winding their way through the crops and woodlands of the valley below. Gradually, as the warmth increased, Sir Reginald grew more amiable, till by the time the mud huts of Karin appeared in sight he had become his own genial self again, and was the first to point out the camp, a collection of large tents hard by the village, their white sides looking cool and inviting through the dark green of the trees.

At a respectable distance a crowd of natives were squatting, anxious for a sight of the great man and his guests. At their approach they stood up together, and a chorus arose of "Salaam, sahib, salaam," while turbaned heads bowed low in reverence. The headman came forward, and with many protestations of unworthiness proceeded to welcome the Protector of the Poor and the other Presences. Sir Reginald cut him short. Afterwards, he said, he would be pleased to see him, but not now, and thereupon he dismounted, and, followed by the others, entered the large marquee, where he stood, a smile appearing on his face as he viewed the result of Madrasi Samuel's efforts.

It was a cheering sight on which his eyes rested. On the snowy tablecloth, glittering with glass and silver and tastefully decked with flowers, stood crystal dishes piled high with peaches, nectarines, and pears, while on a trestle sideboard were displayed cold baked meats of many kinds, from the tiny but succulent quail, nestling in his bed of quivering jelly, to the lordly turkey, carefully browned and portly with chestnut stuffing. From buckets of ice, hock and soda-water bottles reared inquiring heads, while from the kitchen outside came the inspiring sizzle of bacon and chop, their fragrance mingling with that of the roasting coffee-berry.

The faces of the Resident and his wife beamed with pleasure at the sight. "Let come what might" now, the main object to them of the expedition was assured, and, no matter whether the bears were found or not, there was at any rate eating and drinking to fall back upon.

Promptly vetoing Hector's suggestion that before falling to they should make arrangements for the first drive in order to waste no time. Sir Reginald summoned the servants and the business of breakfast commenced, during which Graeme and Lucy mentally beheld the quarry, bored with waiting, stalk disgustedly away to their mountain fastnesses. At length the apparently interminable meal was ended, but not their trials, for Sir Reginald, drowsy with repletion, called for cheroots, and, having carefully selected a long and black weed from the box, notched the end neatly with a knife, and, lighting it, lay back in his chair and proceeded to abandon himself to dreamy reflection. This was too much for the now indignant pair, and goaded at length into action by their fidgeting Sir Reginald, with a sigh of regret, rose and accompanied them outside, where the headman and his retinue were still patiently squatting.

The story, as told by this worthy, was sufficiently thrilling. The country, it appeared, for miles round was alive with bears, black in hue, and of incredible size and ferocity, and though the number of those actually seen dwindled down to three under the close cross-questioning of the Resident, still three, one a man-slayer, was news enough to inspire any man, or woman either, and it was with a heart beating with excitement, not unmixed with fear, that Lucy accompanied her husband to the scene of the coming drama.

Hector was confident, as usual. His experience of big-game shooting was nil, but what of that? He was a crack performer with a shot-gun, and no doubt, should the occasion present itself, he would prove himself equally proficient with the rifle. His vanity also was stirred, for had not the headman besought him to deliver the village from the tyranny of these beasts, and, though he was addressing Sir Reginald at the time, his eyes had turned to him more than once; and naturally, for it was hardly likely that anyone so old and fat as the Resident could be relied on in an emergency like the present. No, it was to him they looked, and, by Jove! they should find their confidence was not misplaced. Ahmed Khan well knew how to foster these sentiments, for in them he saw lay profit to himself. Like most natives, he was an unconscious student of human nature; it is their stock-in-trade for the extracting of rupees, and, as he was aware from experience, the lordlier the sahib's frame of mind, the more noble the bakshish, as is befitting.

Edging up to his master, therefore, who on this occasion did not repulse him, he proceeded to launch forth into a panegyric of Graeme's virtues, expressing his conviction, that, of all the sahibs he had hitherto served, his sahib was incomparably the bravest and most expert with gun and rifle. And for this, he ejaculated fervently, Allah be praised, since no one less gifted could hope to emerge victorious from a contest with bears so ferocious as these undoubtedly were. Thereupon followed a stream of gruesome and imaginary anecdote illustrative of these animals' incredible daring and savagery; but, with a pleased glance at Lucy's white face, let not the memsahib be frightened, for he, Ahmed Khan, would be there to see that no harm came to her or the sahib. Only over his dead body should that happen, for he had no fear of the beasts, ferocious as they were. Let her but look, and here again his hand sought out the bundle of papers, till, suddenly catching the sahib's eye, he changed his mind, and lifting up a fold of his dingy garments blew his nose hastily with it.

At length, after an hour's walk, the scene of action was reached, this being a deeply-wooded ravine roughly triangular in shape and about half a mile in length. Lining the base could be seen the beaters awaiting the signal to advance, the guns being placed in position near the apex, one on either side.

Perched on a tree, overhanging the edge of the ravine and halfway between the beaters and guns, sat, in dignified eminence, the patriarch of the village. His duty it was to stimulate the exertions of his friends by much laudation of their efforts, and at the same time to excite their hatred of the quarry by bitter cursing and vituperation of the same. His further mission was to act as sentinel, and to give notice of the bear's approach to his lords and patrons at the other end.

Suddenly a long loud whistle broke the silence, and at the sound pandemonium broke loose in the ravine, each villager howled his loudest, while through the din was heard the dull monotonous throbbing of a tom-tom, lustily beaten by the village priest. The line of beaters crept on, but so far there was no sign of the enemy; the uproar gradually abated, and even the tom-tom had ceased to beat, when suddenly the figure in the tree began to show signs of agitation. He craned forward, his neck was thrust out like that of a vulture, and then with a wild shriek of "Balu! balu!"[#] he commenced to wave his arms and gesticulate with a frenzied energy, which threatened every minute to precipitate him from his perch into the abyss below.

[#] "The bear! the bear!"

Instantly the clamour was renewed, the thrumming of the tom-tom rose to a roar, while, faintly heard through the din, the thin screams of the patriarch in the tree smote upon the ear. He exhorted his brothers to advance and fear not, in the same breath cursing the bear and reviling its female ancestors with an intensity and bitter hatred, which that harmless mulberry-eater would hardly seem to have merited.

At the sportsmen's end of the ravine a tense silence reigned, all eyes being fixed on the undergrowth below, whence a faint rustling and clatter of loose stones were now coming, betokening something's approach. Lucy's face whitened, and she clutched her husband by the arm. Shaking her off, he grasped his rifle tighter; but, alas! the quarry was not for him, for suddenly the "old and fat" Sir Reginald was seen to raise his weapon, a dull boom echoed through the ravine, followed by a "Woof, woof," a commotion in the bushes, and then the silence of death. The bear was slain.

"Damn!" muttered Graeme, and was turning sharply away when a gasp from Lucy stopped him, and looking round he beheld another bear, which, having emerged unseen from below, was now hastily shuffling off. Graeme fired, but the bear paid no heed; again he fired, and still the target refused to stop, but to the accompaniment of a wail from Lucy and a curse from Ahmed Khan lumbered on to the shelter of some bushes and was lost to view.

A dreadful moment followed; not only had he, Hector Graeme, missed an easy shot in the eyes of the whole village, but, worse still, he had failed where another had succeeded, an altogether impossible situation, and one by no way improved by the well-meant, though perhaps tactless, condolences of his host, who now joined them. The thing was done, however, and the bear in safety miles away, so assuming what nonchalance he might, and avoiding the reproachful eyes of Lucy, who declined to look at Sir Reginald's bear, and the glum face of Ahmed Khan, whose hopes of bakshish had disappeared with the bear, he turned to his host, and jauntily inquired what the next move was to be. Sir Reginald without hesitation answered that that must undoubtedly be lunch, it being now past one, and the next beat more than a mile distant, whereupon, guided by a white-clad khitmagar, sent forward for the purpose by the thoughtful Samuel, the party returned to the marquee, where once more they found a repast awaiting them, more suggestive of Prince's or the Savoy than a picnic in the wilds of Kashmir.

At first Graeme's mood was not conversational, but gradually, under the influence of good cheer and much hock and soda, his mortification subsided, till at cigarette time he had recovered his wonted serenity, and even permitted himself to discuss the recent disaster.

"Curious thing," he observed, "my missing like that, wonder what happened. Don't often do it, rather good shot as a rule, ain't I, Lucy?"

"Indeed you are, Hector," answered the latter, looking indignantly at her host and refusing to respond to a wink. "My husband is considered one of the best shots in Hertfordshire, Sir Reginald, and how he came to miss the bear I can't imagine. I think there must be something wrong with that rifle, Hector, I really do."

"Wrong with the powder, I should say, Mrs. Graeme," said the Resident, in high good-humour, "wants straightening. Have to do better than that when you go to Tirah, why ... Try that Grand Marnier, Graeme, I can recommend it."

"Thanks, I will," said Graeme, filling his glass, "and about Tirah—going up, are we, when?"

"Surely, Sir Reginald, there's no chance of that?" said Lucy, with startled eyes.

"No chance whatever, Mrs. Graeme, no chance at all, I should say; foolish of me to have mentioned it, must have been dreaming. A native regiment or two may have to go, that is, if the Afridis really mean trouble, which I doubt, but hardly British cavalry. No, no, set your mind at rest."

"Native troops again," muttered Graeme discontentedly; "it's always the same story. They have all the fun, while we fool about in cantonments. Wish to Heaven I was in a black corps."

"You'd very soon wish yourself out again, my friend," said his host. "I know I'd give something to be back in the old 12th," his thoughts reverting as he spoke to the days when he was a subaltern in a fashionable Hussar regiment. "Gad, what times we used to have, and what an infernal young fool I was to come the mucker I did. Real life that was, not this tin-pot grandeur and importance."

Lady Wilford at once intervened. To her, a former Mussoori belle and daughter of a police official in that place, Sir Reginald's London reminiscences were always distasteful. India, not England, was her native country, and she was not going to hear the former or its dignity derided, certainly not in the presence of a mere soldier officer, who, as everyone knows, is in no way the equal of an Indian civilian.

"Of course, you don't mean that, Reginald," she observed with some asperity, "and I confess I'm rather surprised that you, in your position, should have made such a remark. You'll be giving our guests an altogether wrong impression, but," turning to Hector, "you mustn't take what my husband says seriously, Captain Graeme; he often jokes in this way."

"Mayfield's your cousin, ain't he, Sir Reginald?" said Hector, unheeding. "He and Lady Edith were staying with my governor last covert shooting."

"No; she is. Rockingham was my father's brother. Good old Uncle Jack, wonder when I'll see him again. Gad, I remember...."

"Won't you tell us about the frontier, Reginald?" said Lady Wilford. "You know, Captain Graeme, my husband's one of the great authorities on the subject; indeed, his Excellency, a great friend of ours, once told me he considered him the greatest. I'm sure you would like to hear about it, both of you."

"Very much," said Hector, lying back in his chair and lighting another cigarette.

"It's hardly the subject for a picnic lunch, my dear," said the Resident, rather annoyed at being shown off in this manner, "and I'm sure it wouldn't interest our guests."

"Indeed, Sir Reginald, it would," answered Lucy, dealing a surreptitious kick at her husband's foot, at which with a low growl he opened his closing eyes.

"Some mullah fellow been stirring 'em up, hasn't he, Sir Reginald?" he observed sleepily.

"The Hadda Mullah," said the Resident briefly, "trying to proclaim a religious war. Jehad, they call it. Don't think he will, all the same, for the Afridis have no religion to speak of. They'll be a hard nut to crack, if they do rise; but let's be off, it's time we were at those bears again. Wait a minute, though," he added, suddenly rising and hurrying out of the tent; "there's a man I want to see before we start. You stay here," looking hard at his wife, "amuse our guests till I return, Sarah. I won't be a minute."

"Now then, what is it?" he said sharply to a blue-clad native, with a leather belt round his waist, whose approach he had observed through the open door of the tent. "Letter for me? Hum, I was afraid of it, a wire too for Graeme sahib. Damn, but it's bad luck on her. All right, here's the sahib coming out now. You can give him the wire—not now, you fool, wait for three minutes."

"Oh, Mrs. Graeme, come over here and have a look at my bear, fine chap, isn't he? I'll have him skinned for you if you like; he'll make rather a good carriage-rug."

"It's awfully kind of you, Sir Reginald, but I couldn't think ... Why, what on earth's the matter with my husband? He seems very angry. Good—good heavens, what's that in his hand? It's, heavens, it's a telegram. Oh, Hector, what is it?"

"Only a recall, Lucy, that's all, an order to return, from that old fool Schofield. But I won't go. I'll see him damned first, by the Lord I will! I'm here on leave, and here I'll stay. You see now what comes of being in the Service, always at the beck and call of some jumpy idiot of a C.O."

"But—but why, Hector, what for?"

"I don't know; all it says is 'Return at once.' Some silly inspection, I suppose. But I ain't going. I'll wire to say 'Regret impossible.' Here, you fool with the belt, give me a form."

"I'm afraid you can't do that, Graeme," said his host gravely.

"Can't I? I'll soon show you I can. Why ... what do you mean, do you know anything of this, Sir Reginald?"

"The 1st Lancers leave Riwala for the frontier to-night. The Afridis have risen, after all, and seized the Khyber forts. I'm very sorry, Mrs. Graeme, but I was afraid of it all along. That's why I didn't want to come to-day."

Lucy said nothing.

"What's all this?" said Lady Wilford, coming up. "Oh," on hearing the news, "I do call that a shame, my dear, I am so sorry."

Lucy again made no answer, but, turning, left the group and walked slowly away to her tent.

"Oh, but, Reginald," continued his wife, really distressed, "surely something can be done, these two poor creatures, why not send a wire to say Captain Graeme's sick and can't move? They'd believe you, though of course they wouldn't him."

"My dear, what you suggest is impossible."

"I should just think it is," said Graeme, the anger on whose face had now turned to joy. "What! me skulk up here while my regiment's fighting on the frontier, not much. Here, I must get back to Shiraz at once. Ahmed Khan, put my things together, ek dum.[#] And you," to the peon, "order me a tonga when you get back. Gad, but this is good business, Lucy. Now where's my wife got to?"

[#] Immediately.

The Resident looked at him curiously. He didn't much like his guest at that moment.

"I think," he said rather coldly, "she has gone away to her tent. It's a bit rough on her, Graeme, you know."

"By Jove, yes, of course it is. I must go and find her at once. When do you think we can start, Sir Reginald?"

"Time enough if you leave Baramoula to-morrow. You can't do it to-night; besides, if you're thinking of your brother officers, they'll have gone by now."

"I sincerely trust they have. I don't want their company, Porky in a tonga would be just about the limit, and I must go to-night. I shouldn't sleep a wink if I didn't. Oh, let's be off. You can give me a permit, I suppose, for the road?"[#]

[#] A permit from the Resident of Kashmir is required by those wishing to make the Tonga journey to the plains by night. This is on account of the dangerous nature of the road.

"Oh, as far as that goes, there'd be no difficulty, but..."

"That's settled then. I'll go and tell Lucy."

"Very well, if you insist, we'll be ready in half an hour from now. You can manage it, I suppose, Sarah?" to his wife, who was looking at Graeme with indignant eyes.

"Oh yes, but I really think..."

"So do I, but it seems our friend here has made up his mind. Rather a sad ending to our picnic, Graeme;" but the latter was already on his way to the tent, where he found Lucy lying face downwards on her bed, quietly sobbing.

At the sight, a sudden spasm of remorse seized Hector; tears were a rare occurrence with Lucy. He knelt down beside her and tried to take her hand.

"I'm awfully sorry, dear," he began, "and I'm afraid I've been beastly selfish, but I'm afraid in the excitement I never thought of that. I can see now it's devilish hard on you, and I wish, I do indeed, I hadn't to go; but I must; you see that, don't you, dear?"

No answer but sobs.

Hector was nonplussed. He could make love as well as most men—perhaps even better—but in the capacity to feel the sorrows of others his nature was altogether lacking, and he knew no other way to dry a woman's tears save with kisses. Such grief merely bored and annoyed him, and, as he looked at the stricken figure before him, in spite of himself a faint feeling of grievance began to take possession of him.

"Come, Lucy," he said, trying to make his voice as gentle as he could. "Pull yourself together, dear; after all, you are more to blame for this than me."

"I, Hector, oh, how?"

"For not letting me cut the Service when I wanted to. You see now what has come of it."

"Oh, how I wish I had, but I only did it for your sake, Hector."

"And that being so," continued Graeme, feeling his advantage, "it's hardly logical to complain. After all, fighting is what we're for, not loafing about barracks. Why, it was only last night that you were at me to take my profession seriously, and now, when I've got a chance at last, you grumble. It isn't fair, Lucy, it isn't really; makes the going ten times worse for me."

"I—I'm not grumbling, only—crying a little. I—I shouldn't be human if I didn't. Oh, Hector, are you made of stone?"

"Of course I'm not, only I've got more self-control. I feel it every bit as much as you do; it's the same for me, you know."

"It isn't, it isn't!" sobbed Lucy. "You've got the excitement, your brother officers and—and the rest. You're not left alone with nothing to do but think, as I shall be after to-morrow, for you must go then, I suppose. Oh, dearest, couldn't you wait for just one more day, for my sake, Hector?"

"I—I'm afraid I must go to-night, Lucy," stammered Hector.

The girl sat up, her eyes rather wild.

"To-night? Oh no, no, you can't; you mustn't go to-night. I—I couldn't bear it, Hector."

"I must, dear; if I didn't, they might put me under arrest for disobedience to orders. Think what might be said too, that brute O'Hagan, for instance."

"What does it matter about him? I come first. And you can't go to-night. The road's not safe. Those awful precipices."

"There's no danger, Lucy, and, believe me, I must." Hector's jaw set and his eyes hardened.

A long pause. Graeme looked at his watch. Quarter of an hour had already passed.

"Lucy, dear," he began again, "I don't wish to hurry you, but Sir Reginald told me to say that he would start in half an hour;" and Lucy at once rose, except for her pale face and red eyes, to all appearances calm once more.

"Very well, Hector," she said in a level voice, "I will be ready. Tell Sir Reginald I won't keep him waiting. I—I should like an hour or two at Shiraz, though, if you can wait so long. I want to see about your things."

"Oh, of course, dear, and, Lucy, you know, don't you, that it's not want of feeling on my part? I hate it as much as you do, probably more, only..."

"Yes, yes, but please leave me now, Hector, or I shan't—shan't. Oh, go—go."

She half pushed him out of the tent and closed the flap behind him.

* * * * *

"That fellow was right," muttered Hector, as some hours later he rode down the hill on his way to Baramoula, "who said soldiers ought not to be married. I wish to heaven I'd sent in my papers before I left England, as I wanted to; but she wouldn't have it, said she wanted me to make a name for myself, and now the time's come, it seems she doesn't want it at all. No more do I, much rather stay behind with her. God, how cursedly miserable I feel, so much for love for a woman stirring a man's ambition and making him keen to do things. It don't, it takes all the heart out of him. Hullo, there's Baramoula, now I wonder whether that fool ordered my tonga?" and shaking up his pony he rode on at a canter.

CHAPTER IV

Early morning on the Khyber Hills. Not the autumn morning known to dwellers in rural England, where eyes rest on a landscape of still loveliness, on stubble-fields of pale yellow, on copses of russet and gold, and on meadows sheeted in silver dew, but something far different from that. Here is no green of grass, no vitalising chill of morning air, but instead a dull burning heat, clothing a land of flat stony plain and glowing mountain, towering up into a sky of hard cloudless blue.

In the centre of the plain, apparently alone, a British soldier stood watching, a white-faced soldier, his khaki uniform creased and tumbled, and, though his rôle of sentry was no laborious one, already stained with dark patches of sweat. Around him for miles stretched the brown monotony of sun-baked stony flat, seamed here and there by ragged-edged nullahs and dry watercourses, in the sandy beds of which a few withered shrubs and tussocks of grass clung hard to a miserable existence.

Before him, some three miles away, a wall of mountains barred the view, a rampart of earth and stone glaring red in the sunlight; sheer from the plain it rose, a forbidding barrier between India and Afghanistan, a barrier too with but few gateways, one of which, however—a dark rift in the hills—lay directly in front of the soldier as he stood.

Here and there, huddled against the foot of the mountains, could be seen the mud walls and strong square towers of a Pathan village, apparently deserted save for the occasional appearance of a white-clad figure and a few herds of miserable-looking sheep and goats browsing on the hillside hard by. Far away behind him, the solid walls and ramparts of Fort Hussein rose from the plain, a former Sikh stronghold, and now the temporary abode of her Majesty's 1st Regiment of Lancers.

Screening its mass, arose a thick haze of dust and smoke, through which now and again could be seen the faint twinkle of lance-point and sword-scabbard, and, the dust at times clearing, strings of mules and horses moving to and from a pond of muddy water. Over all was a pitiless brazen sky, in which glared the yellow disc of the sun, its rays smiting down on sweating man and beast, and turning Fort Hussein into an inferno of flies, fever, and burning walls.

Sentry Bates, clutching his carbine, now well-nigh too hot to hold, viewed all these things with aching eyes, and spat on the ground and swore. "An' this is bein' on active service," he muttered, "this doin' of guards and pickets more than wot a man 'as in barriks, no fightin', no enemy, no nuthink, only patrollin,' an' stinkin' rations and 'ot beer when you git 'ome. Wot are we 'ere for, I'd like to know, wot for did they send the ridgmint up 'ere? Fed up, that's wot I am, fair fed up." He paused, took off his helmet and wiped his brow. He then replaced the headpiece, front to back, as is customary with Tommy Atkins when out of sight of authority, and, taking from his breast-pocket a packet of "Swell" cigarettes, lit one and resumed his soliloquy.

"Wonder what 'Ooky's doin' over there?" he murmured, gazing towards a hillock some two miles away to the front of him, where a small group of horses could be seen standing. "Fancy the bloke a-sendin' 'im on detached post, ruddy foolishness, I call it, not like the bloke at all. 'Ullo, they're movin', strike me, they're gone, now what the 'ell does that mean?" He remained staring vacantly.

Private Bates, though apparently solitary and unsupported, was nevertheless not so, for close at hand, hidden from view in the depths of a great nullah, a troop of the 1st Lancers were lying; to which force he was now acting as look-out man.

Here, standing in a row, their heads fastened together by the process known in the Service as "linking," were the horses, black with sweat and restlessly kicking at the buzzing flies, while their riders, except the luckless Bates and a few men told off to watch the animals, were sitting in a circle smoking and indulging in that desultory conversation to which the British soldier is addicted. Some yards away Hector Graeme was lying on his back, his head resting on his helmet and a handkerchief spread over his face. For an hour he had so lain, trying to sleep; but, the flies and heat forbidding, he had now abandoned the attempt, and was listening to the conversation of the men.

The detachment of which he was this morning in command, or rather one similar to it—for the duty devolved on each troop of the regiment in turn—was sent out daily from Fort Hussein to its present position, its mission being to watch for and report on any movement of tribesmen from the direction of the Pass. For the better fulfilment of the task allotted, and to avoid unnecessary wear and tear of horseflesh, it was customary to push forward from the troop itself a detached post of six men under a non-commissioned officer. These were stationed on a small hillock about a mile distant from the mouth of the Pass, their orders being to watch it, but on no account to enter it.

To-day the command of this post had been entrusted to a certain Sergeant Walker, familiarly known as "Hooky," for, as every soldier is aware, in the Army all Walkers are "Hookies," just as all Clarkes are "Nobbies."

It was the sudden disappearance of this party from its hillock that had so excited the interest of Private Bates, and, curiously enough, at the same time, the conversation in the nullah had also turned on the subject of this particular non-commissioned officer.

"Think 'Ooky's caught the 'Addy Mullah yet, Jim?" said a voice.

"Shouldn't wonder at all, Spider," was the answer, "got 'im tied by a neck-rope to 'is 'orse and a-bringin' of 'im up before the orfcer. Now then, 'Addy, quick march, 'alt, saloot. Stand up straight, can't yer? and stop fiddlin' with yer 'ands. This 'ere 'Addy, sir, 'as been givin' a lot of trouble lately, creatin' of disturbances in the Khyber Parse. Most troublesome man, sir, can't do nothin' with 'im. Sivin days to barriks? Very good, sir. Right turn, dismiss. Come back, d'ye 'ear, and saloot the orfcer properly.'"

"'Ooky's a bloke like a lot more we 'ave in the Army," said another, Wilde by name, "always a-gettin' of a man 'set' and naggin' at 'im. 'E makes crime, does Sergeant Walker."

"That's a fact, Oscar, and 'e 'imself ain't no perticler class, neither. 'E don't know 'is 'orses and 'e don't know 'is drill, but 'e's got a kind o' soapy way with 'im wot goes down with Rawson. Don't get round 'im, though," jerking his head towards Graeme and lowering his voice to a cautious whisper.

"'Oo, 'im? Why, Taylor, 'im as is waiter in the orfcer's Mess, says as 'ow the other orfcers..." The rest of the sentence was inaudible.

"Orfcers, wot do they know? Why..." Mumble, mumble, and then, in the heat of controversy, a voice raised:

"'E ain't a fool, I tell you, Ginger, the 'ole squadron knows that. Ferrers, 'oo's Ferrers? Give me 'Ector, and you can 'ave the rest, ole man and all."

"Now then, stop that language," came sharply from a recumbent figure with three gold stripes on his arm, surmounted by a crown. Sergeant-Major Stocks had suddenly become alive to the enormity of the present discussion, and hastened to intervene. At his voice a hush fell on the group till, authority once more slumbering, the conversation was resumed.

"Wot for then 'as 'e gone and put 'Ooky on detached post, that's what I want to know?" said a voice, echoing the same doubt that had arisen in Private Bates's mind.

"Better arsk 'im, cully, not me. 'E knows 'Ooky same as 'e knows every man in the squadron, and if so be as 'e's put 'Ooky to watch the Parse, 'e's got 'is reasons for it, same like 'e always 'as."

A somewhat curious smile played over Hector's face as he listened, for the speaker was right in what he said. He did know his men. More, he had an intimate knowledge of their natures and capabilities, such as no other officer of the regiment could have hoped to acquire even had he tried. However, the other officers had not tried, the study of character in no way being regarded as part of the training of an officer in the British Army. With Hector such knowledge was a natural gift, as well as a hobby, and possibly it was owing to this that he possessed his curious popularity and influence over the men, at which Major Rawson, his squadron leader and constant foe, had so often wondered.

And yet, knowing them as he did, he had deliberately selected a non-commissioned officer, whom he knew to be one of the most incompetent in the regiment, for the responsible position he now held. But again, as Private Thomas had observed, he had his reasons, though these would probably have much astonished that person, as well as anyone else to whom they had been divulged.

Briefly they were as follows. The present was the fourth occasion on which Graeme had been entrusted with this particular mission, and so far as had also happened to his brother officers, the proceedings had been of a singular tameness—no sign of an enemy having been seen and no shot fired. While they were content to grumble, Hector had determined to act and at all costs to have some little fighting to his credit, even if this should involve an attack on the Pass with his one troop.

On the way out this morning, his mind occupied with the problem of how his object was to be attained, he had by chance overheard a conversation between the redoubtable Sergeant Walker and a corporal; the former, as was his wont, vaunting his bravery and informing his incredulous companion that "give me but arf a chance, and I will show them I am afraid of no Pathan blokes; up the bloody Pass I mean to go sooner or later, orders or no orders."

Graeme, at first bored, soon became attentive, and finally, to the astonishment of the troop, called the hero up, and told him he would be in command of the detached post that day. This information he supplemented with a few remarks on the necessity of daring and enterprise on the part of subordinates, concluding by a short anecdote dealing with the subject of a certain sergeant who, though acting in defiance of orders, had yet achieved great renown. Having thus fired an already sufficiently vainglorious spirit, he despatched the man on his mission, observing with secret gratification his victim surreptitiously borrow the trumpeter's revolver, and with this tucked away in his holster depart, rating his followers as he went, even more than was his wont.

Having then watched the party's arrival at their destination, Graeme, well pleased, descended into the nullah, occasionally climbing out, glasses in hand, while a frown gradually overspread his face as time went on and nothing happened. By now he had abandoned hope, and was apathetically listening to his soldiers' talk when there was a sudden general cry of "'Ullo!" and removing the handkerchief from his face, he looked up to meet a pair of bulging eyes staring at him from above. It was Bates the sentry, an agitated Bates, bursting with momentous tidings.

"Beggy pardon, sir," he gasped, '"Ook ... Sergeant Walker, sir, 'as left 'is 'ill, and there's 'eavy firin' goin' on in the Parse, you can 'ear it quite plain from 'ere."

A chorus of "Gawds," a scuffle, a rush, and all were up the nullah's side and standing on the level, with eyes fixed on the dark rift in the mountain wall. Yes, there it was, the dull intermittent thudding of shots, plainly audible in the still morning air, and, as Graeme listened, a queer cold thrill ran through him—that strange sensation, half awe, half exultation, which every soldier has felt on whose ears the sound beats for the first time.

In those red mountains yonder a drama was now being enacted, a drama all the more terrible because unseen and only imagined; one in which he too must shortly play his part. He, now warm and palpitating with life, would a few minutes hence be standing in Death's presence, nay, might have passed into his keeping and become deaf and insensible as the stones on which he lay.

Fascinated, he stood gazing, and still the firing continued, but, strain his eyes as he might, no sign of enemy could he see on those bare brown slopes; nor yet of the sergeant and his party was there a trace. They were gone, apparently swallowed up in the mountains.

At last from the mouth of the Pass a cloud of dust appeared, through which horsemen could be discerned galloping hard along the road leading to Fort Hussein.

At the sight, a buzz of conversation arose.

"Made a 'ash of it, same as I thought he would."

"Been up the Parse, cont'r'y to orders."

"An' now 'ookin out of it, double quick?"

"'Ow many's been shot, I wonder?"

"Mount," from Graeme, and straightway there was a cessation of comments and a frenzied descent to the nullah and horses, each man seizing the first animal he came to, regardless of ownership. A blast of bad language rose up like smoke.

"Leave my 'orse alone, Ginger. Get on yer own ruddy 'orse."

"Which of you blokes 'as pinched my lance?"

"Take yer 'orse's foot off my carbine."

"Forward, gallop, march" from the leader, and the troop were off, making for the road along which the horsemen were advancing—Graeme with his trumpeter some thirty yards ahead. As he rode, he thought hard, speculating as to what had happened, and wondering if it meant the chance for which he had been asking, till at length the road having been reached he halted, the troop drawn up in line across the way behind him, waiting for the fugitives, now barely a quarter of a mile distant, and still galloping hard towards him. On they came, nearer and nearer still, till their faces could be seen, and at the sight a simultaneous murmur of "Gawd" broke from the staring men.

"Halt!" shouted Graeme.

The horsemen paid no heed, but still came on, a wild-eyed rabble, their horses in a lather, with necks outstretched as they thundered along the dusty road.

"Halt!" he roared once more. "Halt!" echoed the Sergeant-Major.

"Christ, they'll be into us," from the troop, whereupon an ominous murmur and shuffling arose from the ranks.

"Damn it, my lot'll be off in a moment," muttered Graeme, and then, inspiration coming to him, "Engage!" he shouted.

Immediately, at the familiar word of command, the murmuring ceased, with a clatter of bamboo and steel down came the lances, and a row of glittering points barred the road; behind them sat a line of motionless figures, soldiers firm and steady once more, their momentary wavering gone.

At the sight the fugitives stopped, and a high-pitched chattering rose upon the air, each man telling his story, glancing the while with fearful eyes towards the mountains behind. Livid cheeks ran wet with tears, and little quavers of laughter, broken with sobs, broke from loose-lipped mouths, the loud gasping of the steaming horses drowning the pitiful outcry; but their comrades behind the lance-points answered nothing, only looked at them, their eyes cold and faces grown suddenly white and very serious.

"And these are British soldiers," muttered Graeme, a feeling of disgust coming over him; "the others would have been the same too in another minute." And then rage seized him, and riding up to Sergeant Walker, now a shivering jelly of a man, he began furiously to question him.

In vain, however; the creature was too far gone to answer, and could only babble incoherently, while he pointed with shaking finger to his horse, in whose side could be seen a small dark hole, from which at every laboured breath a thin stream of blood ran out, staining with dull crimson the white dust of the road. At length, patience deserting him, he seized the man by the collar and shook him. This method proved more effectual, and he succeeded in eliciting the fact that he had taken his party up the Pass in spite of orders, that they had been suddenly fired upon from all sides, and he couldn't clearly remember what had happened then; but they had got out all right, all of them.

"Private Mortlock missing," said the Sergeant-Major's voice from the rear, and at the words a cry of exultation almost escaped Graeme, for his calculations had proved correct, and Sergeant Walker had provided him with the chance asked for. Remembering in time, however, he checked himself, and turning his back on the troop began rapidly to consider. The risks were obvious, also the futility of the proceeding on which he had already determined, but of these he thought not at all, for with him an idea once formed became an obsession. It had to be carried out, right or wrong, possible or to all seeming the reverse, for such was his nature. The "how" might require consideration—deep consideration too, as now—but the "whether" never. His course once decided on, doubts never assailed him, and in this he had the advantage over most; for feeling no doubt, and consequently no counter-emotion rising to cloud his brain, this was at his disposal, free to work undisturbed at the problem before it. So now, with all eyes fixed upon him, he sat debating and then the plan clear before him he turned and rode slowly back to the staring troop:

"Men," he said, "I'm going back for Mortlock, I want four volunteers, who's for it?" Silence for a good ten seconds, and then out from the rear rank rode a dirty-looking soldier, one Private Williams, reputed the worse character in the troop. Forward he came, and, halting behind Graeme, sheepishly grinned at his comrades.

"I'm wiv yer, Billy, strike me," said a voice, and Private Rogers, his chum and constant associate in evil-doing, also rode forward and ranged himself alongside.

"I'll come too, sir; it's a Christian's duty," said another quietly, and Private Green, the religious man of the troop, and an ardent temperance advocate, joined the other two.

A pause followed, Graeme's eye running down the line.

"I should like you, Haslopp," he said at last, "to make up the party," whereupon, without a word, a huge shoeing-smith, the regimental "strong man," left the ranks, and the number required was complete. "Right," said Hector, "four good men," at which unwonted eulogy Rogers and Williams winked in unison. "Now, Sergeant-Major, you'll be in charge of the troop till I return. Bring them on after me to that rise there, and open fire on the hills bordering the Pass. Don't suppose you'll see anything, or hit it if you do, but it will help to keep the enemy's fire off me. As for them," pointing to Sergeant Walker's men, now very silent and subdued, "keep 'em well in front; run a lance into any man of them who tries to bolt. That's all, I think. Now then, my heroes, forward on," and, shaking up his horse, Graeme set off, followed closely by the quartette of volunteers.

"A nice selection," he reflected as he rode, "two bad hats, one religious lunatic and a thick-headed shoeing-smith. Never mind, such as they are, they came at a word from me, and I love 'em for it. Gad, I do. Devilish quiet it all is," as mile after mile was covered, and still the silence remained unbroken; "nearly there now, must be, and not a shot so far. Wonder whether they've cleared off and it's going to be a walk-over after all. Ah, not it," suddenly ducking his head, as something sighed through the air above him, followed by a deep bang, while a wailing cry of "Allah, Allah," came faintly to his ears. "Stooks is at it too now," he continued, as the rending shriek of cordite sounded from behind, and a flight of bullets whistled overhead. "Lord, we're in for it." He bent forward in his saddle and urged his horse forward at top speed, while the air was alive with winged death and the hills ahead echoed to the loud banging of Jezail and Snider. "It's good though, all the same, worth living for;" and, a sudden feeling of exhilaration coming over him, he shouted aloud. Rogers and Williams screamed hoarsely in sympathy, till a loud thud followed by a ringing crash brought the concert to an abrupt termination. "Who is it?" shouted Graeme, pulling up and looking round.

"Rogers, sir," came faintly from a dusty heap on the road, the said heap sitting up and looking around with dazed eyes. "Not 'urt, though, sir, it's me 'orse 'e's got 'it in the 'ead. 'Ere, Billy," rising and walking unsteadily towards his chum, "gimme 'old of yer stirrup, I'll foot it alongside."

"You'll do nothing of the kind," shouted Graeme, "go back to the troop at once, and take your sword and carbine with you."

"Beggy pardon, sir, Williams and I..."

"Get back, damn you."

"Beggy..."

"Oh, go to the devil. Come on, men. Let go of that stirrup, Rogers; hit him on the head, Haslopp, if he won't," and once more the party were off, leaving Rogers looking sullenly after them. For some minutes he stood there, and then, having addressed a few pungent remarks to his dead horse, unbuckled his sword and extricated his carbine from its bucket, and, one under each arm, trudged away to a rock hard by. Here he sat down, and, having lighted a cigarette, proceeded at his leisure to take pot-shots at the hills in front of him.

Meanwhile, the party, now reduced to four, were rapidly nearing the mouth of the Pass, but so far no sign of the missing man was to be seen. Faces began to look serious, and the sense of imminent peril to strike home, but still their leader held on, though with every yard covered the situation was becoming more desperate.

Suddenly there arose a cry of "Here he is, sir," and Graeme, looking round, saw Green bending over a heap of khaki lying some distance from the road, the others with their officer having passed it by unseeing.

"Get up, Mortlock," shouted Hector, galloping towards the prone figure.

"Look sharp, man, there's no time to be lost. What's the matter, Green, not dead, is he? Oh—" stopping short and looking curiously down at what had been a human face before Pathan knives had altered it. Much interested Graeme remained staring, till roused by a warning voice.

"Look out, sir, they're comin' down from the rocks; they'll be on us in a minute. Better be off, sir; can't do nuthink for 'im now."

"Go to blazes. Haslopp, where the devil are you, Haslopp? Here, I'll hold your horse; you get down and hand him up to me, put your back into it, man. Oh, for the Lord's sake, look sharp."

"It's all right, sir, plenty of time. Christ, but ye're 'eavy, ole man. 'Ere you are, sir, got 'im? Not that way, sir. Put yer arm round 'im, let 'is 'ead rest agin yer shoulder like."

"Damn, he's slipping; he's slipped, Haslopp. Get your swords out, you two, look behind you," to Green and Williams, whose faces were now ashen.

"Orl right now, sir. Gimme my 'orse, Williams. Blast ye, don't let 'im go."

"Are you up, Haslopp? The point, Green, mind, not the cut."

"Not yet, sir, steady," to his dancing horse; "orl right now, sir."

"Come on then. Be off, you two, no good your waiting here. Gallop on and tell the troop I'm coming—you too, Haslopp."

There was no answer from the shoeing-smith; he remained where he was. Not so the other two; they were off like swallows, nor did they draw rein till a voice from the roadside made them pull up, sick with sudden terror. It was only Rogers, however, requesting the loan of a stirrup, and, much relieved, the two, Rogers running alongside, proceeded on their way.

"Price of a pint out of this 'ere?" gasped the pedestrian.

"Thank God, on your bended knees, Rogers, for 'Is mercy to us all this day," said Green.

"So I will, matey, when I gits the pint. Think the bloke 'll stand it, Billy?"

"Ruddy oceans, cully," was the reassuring answer, "and a limon squash for the rivrend Grassey 'ere."

Meanwhile, Graeme and Haslopp were struggling painfully on. More than once the burden slipped, and but for the "strong man's" assistance would have rolled to the ground, while, to add to their difficulties, Hector's horse had been shot through the neck and was trying his best to bolt. From a canter the pace had fallen to a trot, and finally a walk, bullets and chunks of telegraph-wire shaving them at every step. Fortunately, however, the enemy, the party having once moved off, made no further attempt at pursuit. Possibly they deemed it hopeless, more probably the sight of the troop in rear deterred them; but whatever the reason, they stopped where they were, contenting themselves with shooting at the retreating horsemen from behind their rocks. Still, it was a weary journey, and Graeme's arms were numb with the strain and his brain reeling with the smell of sweat and blood, when at length the firing slackened and then, save for an occasional shot, ceased altogether. Now, but half conscious, yet clutching his burden the tighter, Graeme toiled on, till at last, mingling with the fast-increasing roar in his brain, the thud of galloping hoofs was heard approaching. Louder and louder it sounded, and then round a bend in the road ahead appeared the sturdy figure of Sergeant-Major Stocks, with the troop behind him.

Seemingly miles away, Graeme heard the shout of "'tion" followed by "Carry lance," and then the white road seemed to rear up and smite him in the face. He reeled, fell forward on his horse's neck, hung there for a moment, and then, still gripping the corpse, rolled over sideways, Haslopp supporting the double burden till help arrived, when he rode quietly back to his former place in the rear rank.

* * * * *

"Stand 'im on his 'ead, Major; always keep a bloke's 'ead wot's fainted lower than 'is 'eels."

"Take yer 'orse, Cobble, and 'urry up the ambulance. Tell 'em the orfcer's dead."

"Do nothing of the kind, Cobble. I'm all right; fetch me a water-bottle."

"Water-bottle, water-bottle," from many voices, "'oo's got a water-bottle? 'Ere y'are, sir."

"Send the men away, Sergeant-Major, what the devil are they staring at?"

"No business to be 'ere at all, sir. Be off, all of you, at once; never seen an orfcer before? Get back to yer 'orses sharp."

"Where's Mortlock?"

"Lying over there, sir, where them men are. I've sent for the ambulance; it's comin' along the road now, sir. Cut about 'orrible is Mortlock, sir, 'is brains——"

"Oh, shut up, and give me a cigarette."

"Cigarette, 'oo's got a cigarette? The orfcer wants a cigarette. 'Ere y'are, sir."

"Get the troop mounted now, and tell the trumpeter to bring my horse."

"Better ride in the ambulance, sir, ye're faint-like."

"With Mortlock? No, thank you, Sergeant-Major. I'm all right, I tell you," getting up and promptly sitting down again. "Wait a minute, now I'm ready," and shaking off the Sergeant-Major's arm he walked slowly back to the troop.

"Three cheers for the orfcer," said a voice.

"Stop that and get mounted," was the surly answer, "right about wheel, walk, march."

The troop moved off, the ambulance following close in the rear, and in an hour's time they were passing under the walls of Fort Hussein. These were lined with soldiers in every species of undress, for the messenger despatched for the ambulance had made good use of his time; and all were anxious to see the corpse, which, from Private Wainwright's account, must be well worth inspection.

"The Colonel would like to see you in his quarters at once, Graeme," said Ferrers, riding up; "the body is to be taken to the mortuary. I'll arrange about that," whereupon without further colloquy the adjutant rode away.

"Curious way to greet a fellow who's just done what I have," muttered Graeme, staring after him, "I suppose he's sick he didn't do it himself. Gad, what jealous beggars fellows are. Never mind, I've got the crow over them this time anyway," and with a pleased smile on his lips Hector dismounted, and handing over his horse to a waiting orderly made his way to the Colonel's quarters.

A cold summons to "Come in" answered his knock, and entering he found himself in the presence of two men, one his commanding officer, the other a thick-built individual, whose hair of bristling black stood up around his head like a brush, a round rosy face and staring black eyes completing the picture. This person was Colonel Quentin, generally known as Golliwog, a man who, despite his somewhat quaint appearance, was reputed to be one of the best staff officers in India. As Hector's fate would have it, he had selected this day for a few hours' inspection visit to Fort Hussein, which time he had spent on the top of the tower in company with a powerful telescope.

"You sent for me, sir?" said Graeme, addressing his Colonel and smiling as he spoke, the smile fading, however, as he noted the expression on the latter's face, which, far from being congratulatory or even civil, was unpleasantly hostile.

"Yes, I sent for you," he answered shortly, "but first let me introduce you to Colonel Quentin. This is Captain Graeme, sir, the officer in command this morning," whereupon Golliwog rose from his chair and silently held out his hand. He then resumed his seat, his eyes fixing themselves upon Graeme in a hard, unwinking stare, maintained without intermission throughout the ensuing interview.

"It seems, Graeme," resumed Schofield, "and I regret to say it's not the first time, you've made a mess of things."

"I, sir, how?" stammered Hector, utterly taken aback.

"By disobeying orders; you know perfectly well the strict injunctions not to enter the Pass, and yet in spite of them your patrol went up this morning, with the result that you lost a man most unnecessarily. Of course, my information may be incorrect, and, if so, I should be glad to hear it."

For a moment Graeme was silent. This view of the matter was one altogether unexpected by him, and rendered his action the more impossible of explanation from the fact that it was true—though how true fortunately neither his Colonel nor anyone else knew.

"Sergeant Walker, sir, exceeded his instructions, I think, though, I'm hardly to blame for that."

"Not to blame," snapped Schofield, "who is then, I should like to know? If you'd given your instructions properly, it wouldn't have happened. An officer's not responsible for his troop, isn't he? A nice theory to hold, I must say."

"You recovered the man's body, I believe, Captain Graeme?" said Golliwog gently.

"I did," was the sullen answer.

"Was the firing heavy when you went back?"

"It was."

"Hum," and Quentin again relapsed into silence.

"It's thanks to that, Graeme, your recovery of the body, I mean," resumed Schofield in a quieter tone, "and the intercession of Colonel Quentin, who has promised to explain the affair to the General, that I do not intend to carry the matter further. I trust, however, it will be a lesson to you, and that in future you'll be good enough to obey orders exactly and implicitly. That's all, I think, unless, sir," turning to Golliwog, "you'd care to say anything."

"Of course, Graeme," answered Quentin, "I'm quite in accord with your Colonel. An officer must stand or fall by what his command does. He has the training of them, he gives the orders, and if the latter are misunderstood he gets the blame; it's really fair, for he also, and not the men, gets the credit if things go right. A very great many officers can do things themselves, Graeme, but to make others do them for you, you being the head and they the hands, wants a leader. All the same, as regards this morning, I think, and I am sure your Colonel agrees with me, that your personal share was creditable, most creditable."

"Oh, most creditable," snarled Schofield.

"That's all I wish to say, Colonel," continued Quentin. "Good-bye, Graeme, I hope to meet you again some time," and the speaker's teeth gleamed in a sudden smile, as he shook Graeme warmly by the hand.

"That's a curious-looking officer, Schofield," he resumed, the door having closed behind Hector. "Stuff in him, I should say, must be. How does he do his work?"

"Indifferently well, to be truthful, sir."

"Hum, very likely. Three-cornered beggar I can see. Wouldn't do for an A.B.C., you think? Belman wants one, I know, for this Tirah show, and if you recommend I could easily get him the job."

"Couldn't do it, sir, really; his General would starve in a week, and I should get the blame. As you told him yourself just now, sir, a man's responsible for his subordinates."

"Hum, in that case I suppose I mustn't ask for him. Pity though, I should like to have done something for him. Good-bye, Colonel, I must get back to Saidabad. Not done much inspecting, thanks to Graeme. Good-bye."

* * * * *

Meanwhile Hector, with wrath in his heart, was striding back to his quarters, passing, as he went, the officers' Mess, a disused stable, where a crowd was assembled discussing lunch and the morning's events.

"Hullo, there goes the hero," said Kinley, seeing him pass. "Hi, Graeme, come here, tell us all about it," vainly calling. "Lord, he looks sick; wonder what the old man's been saying to him? Damned bad luck, really, to earn a V.C. and get a choking off."

"V.C. be hanged," said another, "damned disgraceful, the whole thing, I call it. Nice show up for the regiment, Golliwog looking on too."

"Shut up, O'Hagan," said Royle, one of the majors. "It was a devilish plucky thing to do, and I for one mean to tell Graeme so when I see him."

"Oh, of course, Royle, I didn't mean anything against Graeme personally. He did his best to save the situation, but, all the same, it's not a nice thing for a fellow to have his men bolt, for bolt they did; you can't get away from that. If I were he, I know I'd send in my papers and never be seen again, not a bad thing for the regiment, too, if he did. By-the-bye, I'm having a small gamble in my room to-night, hope you'll come, Royle, and you too, Carson," to another officer who had just entered. "We'll have dinner sent over from the Mess."

"Thank you, O'Hagan, I should like to," answered Royle, but the other refused somewhat shortly.

CHAPTER V

The weeks passed, Christmas came and went, but still the monotonous peace reigning over Fort Hussein and its environs remained undisturbed. All around, sometimes even within hearing of the garrison, mountain and pass echoed to the thunder of guns and rattle of rifle-fire, but for them there was nothing; listless and inactive they remained, apparently forgotten, in the surrounding tumult. The 1st Lancers were a good regiment, not fashionable, possibly, but efficient and keen; further, they were "happy," and knew nothing of those internal dissensions which destroy the harmony of less fortunate corps. Here, however, shut up in a dreary frontier fort, with nothing to occupy or distract their minds, the tone of the regiment insensibly changed. Tempers, always uncertain in India, wore dangerously thin; quarrels blazed forth on little or no provocation; and soon cliques, constantly shifting, began to form.

On one subject, however, these various factions were in absolute agreement, that one being the cordial dislike they all felt for Captain Hector Graeme. For a time, following on his exploit in recovering Private Mortlock's body, his brother officers had been inclined to make much of him, and to show him, the juniors especially, that they considered the Colonel had been both hard and unjust; but these feelings on their part had long since died away, and their former sentiments regarding him again prevailed.

This, it must be owned, was largely due to Graeme's incapacity to respond to their well-meant overtures, but their latent aversion was fanned by the assiduous slanders of Captain O'Hagan—who had a peculiar unreasoning hatred for Hector—till now they had come to regard the Mortlock episode as one highly discreditable to all concerned in it, and of which the less said the better. The word "bolt" had been freely used by that person, and, though Royle and one or two others had at first checked him, he had persisted, even to the extent of uttering his calumnies outside the regiment, with the result that Graeme, save by the men and one other officer, found himself regarded more or less as a pariah. A recent decision of his, moreover, had given colour to O'Hagan's insinuations, for, thanks to some unknown influence, Hector had been offered, and refused, a billet as transport officer to a column fighting in Tirah, a chance at which any other officer of the regiment would have jumped.

On receiving this application for his junior officer's services, the sole proviso being his own recommendation, Colonel Schofield had for some time hesitated. Against his own convictions—and they were strong ones—he had been impressed by what Colonel Quentin had said concerning Graeme, and, being a conscientious man and one who theoretically had no likes or dislikes among his subordinates, he had begun to ask himself whether it were not possible he had made a mistake about this junior. With this idea in his mind, he had laid himself out to find the hidden pearl in the oyster, even unbending so far as to ask Graeme to accompany him, in place of his adjutant, on one of his early morning rides, the result being that on that occasion he rode alone, Hector having unfortunately overslept himself. Stifling his annoyance, he tried again, but, though this time successful in securing his junior's company, the invitation was never renewed, Graeme's conversation, alternately silly and boastful, having tried the Colonel beyond endurance.

Major Rawson, privately spoken to on the subject, did not feel hopeful of ultimate improvement in his captain; he grew worse, he declared, instead of better, his squadron accounts were always in a muddle, while to give Graeme a duty to perform was for that duty to be scamped or, more likely, shirked altogether. True, in an emergency, such as the fire in the squadron store, he seemed to wake up—indeed, he extinguished the flames before the arrival of the engine; also the men liked him; but, for his part, he had no belief in these fly-away fellows, who only worked by fits and starts; give him the methodical straight-going officer, who was always the same and followed the rules laid down. And the Colonel, agreeing, had thereupon commenced his perusal of the morning's mail, amongst the letters being the above-mentioned application. For a day and a night Schofield wrestled with his doubts, and then, though with considerable misgiving, sent for Hector and informed him of his willingness to recommend him for the post.

"Only promise me, Graeme," he concluded, "that you really will put your back into this. Remember, it's not only yourself you have to think about, but also the credit of the regiment."

The concession—and to Colonel Schofield it was a great one—had been made in vain, for Hector then and there declined the chance offered him, giving no reason. Incredulous at first, his Chief soon lost his temper, for it was one thing, he felt, for him to hesitate to recommend a subordinate, but quite another for the latter, when so favoured, to refuse the offer. It would be far better now, he realised, for Graeme to go, even though he proved himself a failure, for, after all, he had been applied for by name, thus throwing responsibility on the shoulders of the applier; whereas his refusal to go would assuredly give rise to caustic remarks from authority, anent lack of keenness in his command, inability to influence his officers, etc.

With these harassing thoughts in his mind, he stifled his anger and proceeded to reason with Graeme, urging upon him the greatness of the opportunity offered, and pointing out the folly of refusal. In vain; Hector remained unmoved; he had made up his mind, and with him, that done, the matter was finished. The interview also afforded him a very real gratification. Well he knew—with that uncanny intuition of his—what was passing in his Colonel's mind, and was more than ever determined to thwart him. It was his turn now; he would make the most of it, and repay his Chief for the humiliation he had heaped upon him before a stranger, in this very room, three months before. Hector never forgot an injury, or a kindness for that matter, and the remembrance of that interview had been smouldering in his heart ever since. One word of praise then, or afterwards some acknowledgment of what he had done, might have been the making of Graeme; but this was not Colonel Schofield's way. Praise from him, if earned, was to be understood, blame to be expressed, and so he had seized upon what was wrong in his subordinate's conduct, ignoring the rest.

Graeme had shown gallantry, it was true, but it was not necessary to praise him for it; the sense of having done his duty, he considered, ought always to be sufficient reward for a soldier. It was not sufficient for Hector, however, to whom applause was as essential as the modicum of opium is to the well-being of a Chinaman, and the consequence of his Colonel's refusal to gratify this craving was to fill him with a bitter sense of grievance and determination to annoy his superiors in every possible way. They wanted him now, did they? he thought. Very well, they shouldn't have him, he was not going to risk his life a second time; he had done it once, and got nothing for it save abuse, and it would be the same again, for they were all alike; he would see them damned before he went. Schofield therefore was but wasting his breath, and, realising this at last, he abandoned the effort and dismissed Graeme from his presence, concluding the interview by remarking that an officer who refused the chance of active service was, in his opinion, best out of the regiment he commanded.

"You may think what you please," muttered Hector, on his way back to his quarters, "but I'm hanged if I will resign. I meant to once we returned to Riwala, but now I won't, just because you want me to."

Thenceforth Hector went his solitary way, shunning, and shunned by, his brother officers, and doing just sufficient regimental work to enable him to avoid a second interview with his Colonel, who was now, he knew, only waiting the opportunity to fall upon him.

To most men, his would have been an impossible existence, but Graeme had been at variance with his fellows since his childhood, and his ever-present feeling of grievance, coupled with the sense of battle against odds, served but to stimulate and harden him in his course. Indeed, had it not been for one thing, he would rather have enjoyed his present life, but that thing was a big one to him, intolerable even, namely, his total inability to cope with the slanders of Captain Robert O'Hagan, whose enmity he returned with a concentrated bitterness of hate, such as, had he been aware of it, would have possibly made that cautious person pause. Many times he had sought to bring his traducer to task, but always without success, for O'Hagan was cunning, popular too amongst his fellows, while Graeme was the reverse, and blank looks or even flat refusal was the sole response he met with in his frequent endeavours to elicit definite proof of calumny from the mouths of his brother officers.

Of wordy controversies in public—and only in the presence of others would O'Hagan condescend to address Graeme—there had been many, and violent ones, but invariably the result had been humiliating to Hector, for O'Hagan possessed the ready tongue of a cheap-jack, and easily reduced Graeme to impotent silence, the latter's feeble, though rude, rejoinders only awakening delighted titters from all present. One day, he sought out O'Hagan and threatened personal violence, to which menace his enemy, who was no hero save in public, where he was safe, replied by calling up a passing junior and requesting Hector to repeat his recent observations. This, Graeme, too angry or too careless to consider consequences, promptly did, whereupon O'Hagan at once reported him to the Colonel, producing his witness, and the Chief, glad of the chance, let himself go for a full ten minutes. Hector subsequently departed to his quarters, where he flung himself down on the bed, gritting his teeth, and tearing at the counterpane.

Thus engaged, he was suddenly brought to himself by a knock at the door, and Captain Carson, his one and only friend in the regiment, entered.

"Hullo," said the latter, looking at him, "what's the trouble? You seem put out."

"I'm busy, Peter, what do you want?" was the answer.

"Nothing much," said Carson, unruffled by his greeting. "I'll go if you want me to. Got some news for you, that's all."

"What is it?"

"Regiment's going back to Riwala, thought I'd tell you so that you could wire to your missus. She's back from Kashmir, isn't she?"

"Likely she'd stay up there in the snow, isn't it? What the devil are we moving for? I hate a move, the whole place upset and everybody fussing like blazes. Lord, how Rawson will fidget, shan't have a moment's peace now, I suppose."

"What an extraordinary fellow you are, Graeme. Don't you want to go back?"

"Of course I do, no one but a fool would wish to stay here. It's the moving I hate. Gad, but I'll be glad enough, I know, to have my own house again, and be quit of the cursed Mess and my brother officers for a while."

Carson frowned.

"Why do you always sneer at the fellows, Graeme? It's no wonder they dislike you."

"I hope they do, but I don't wish to talk about them. When are we off?"

"Three days from now, Ferrers says, just in time for the races."

Graeme's face darkened.

"Blast the races!" he said.

"In heaven's name, what for? You're hard to please this morning."

"O'Hagan's benefit, that's what Riwala racing means, Carson. O'Hagan——"

"Oh, shut up, you've got O'Hagan on the brain. 'Pon my soul, Graeme, I can't understand this hatred for the fellow. I don't like him much, I own, nor I believe do the others really, but I don't hate him. Why are you so infernally immoderate in everything, why not take things quietly, as I do? You'd find life much easier. After all, he's not a bad-hearted fellow."

"He's a low, cowardly blackguard, not one redeeming point about him."

"There's no fellow like that, Graeme; anyway, he's an officer of the regiment, and all our talking won't alter that fact."

"You're right, Peter, talking won't."

"Well, what else can you do? Hullo, what the—— Good Lord!" for the door had been suddenly kicked open—O'Hagan never knocked save at a senior's door—and the subject of their discussion stood on the threshold.

"You here, Carson?" he said, his eyebrows lifted in seeming surprise at the latter's being in such company. "Come and play bridge."

"Not now, thank you, O'Hagan; as you see, I'm talking to Graeme."

"That won't keep you. Graeme's in for it again, cutting stables this time. Rawson wants you, Graeme, at once, going to wheel you up before the C.O., I believe."

"All right, O'Hagan, thank you."

Hearing the gentle answer instead of the outburst he expected, Peter Carson looked up in surprise, with a curious feeling of uneasiness. Surprised also was Captain O'Hagan, but pleasantly, for at last he thought he saw his enemy cowed and conscious of the futility of further resistance. His dark eyes gleamed and a bullying note came into his husky voice.

"It's not all right, I can tell you," he said. "Rawson says, of all the slack, useless——"

"Quite so, and now—get out."

"Get out, who the devil are you talking to? Keep away, d'you hear? Carson, you're the senior officer here, you're witness——"

"Sit down, Graeme, and you, O'Hagan, be off. You've given your message, and I should say made the most of it. Clear out."

"Oh, very well, though I must say it's a nice way to treat a brother officer. The Colonel shall hear of this, I promise you, both of you."

"If you stay another minute, I'll throw you out myself, by God, I will," said Peter, the Carson temper suddenly blazing up, and rising he advanced towards the other, who, however, did not await his approach, but fled hastily.

"Riling fellow that," said Peter, resuming his seat and proceeding to relight his pipe, which had gone out. "Very near lost my temper. What the devil are you laughing at, Graeme, at me?"

"No, at him."

"Him, what for?"

"To think what a fool he is, hammering away like that."

"Hammering?"

"Yes, driving the nails in."

"Don't know what on earth you're talking about, don't suppose you do either. Well, I'm off, there's a busy time ahead for all of us," and Peter rose and went out, leaving Graeme deep in thought. For some minutes he sat there, and then walked across to the window, where he stood looking down on the squadron lines below, already permeated with the spirit of unrest, born of the news of the coming move.

Hurrying to and fro, pointing with his stick and explaining the obvious, Major Rawson could be seen, two harassed-looking subalterns and the Sergeant-Major in close attendance; while some distance away, grave-faced and dignified, Colonel Schofield was standing, issuing orders to the alert Ferrers, who was zealously taking down the same in a large note-book.

A feeling of angry contempt was aroused in Graeme as he looked. "Fussy fools," he muttered, "the whole regiment turned upside down because of a move of a few hundred miles. God! there's Rawson lifting a saddle and weighing it. Why don't he take his coat off and groom the horses and pack the kits while he's about it? And you're worse," he continued scornfully, apostrophising his unconscious C.O., "you're a damned humbug, you are; for only the other day you agreed with Quentin when he told me that to make others work and not work yourself was the thing, and now you see the exact reverse going on you stand there and say nothing. Make me sick, the whole lot of you do. Wish to God I had the running of the show; I'd soon stop all that, and at the same time get them off with no bother at all."

He turned from the window and threw himself down on the bed once more, where he lay evolving schemes of fussless removal, and then, his interest in the subject growing, he seized pencil and paper and committed his ideas to writing. And, as it happened, the idle occupation of a few minutes was not wasted, for Major Rawson, possibly from over-anxiety, was that same evening laid low by fever, and the command of the squadron consequently devolved upon Hector, who thereupon proceeded to put his newly-hatched plans into execution. Ignoring hourly messages and instructions from the sick-bed, he the next morning summoned his non-commissioned officers to his quarters, and after an hour's conversation dismissed them, he himself departing for the day in quest of Cee Cee.[#] Nor, except for half an hour daily, did he subsequently visit the lines, though in the other squadrons all the officers were in attendance throughout the day.

[#] A kind of rock partridge.

To the disappointment of his confrères, no hitch occurred in B Squadron arrangements; on the contrary, while all around fuss and confusion reigned, in Hector's command there was clock-like precision, and to the minute on the day appointed for departure, their kits and tents packed away before daylight on bubbling camels, his men stood waiting beside their saddled horses, with quiet enjoyment on their faces as they viewed the agitated throng on either side. Nor did an extra-minute inspection by a cold-faced Colonel reveal the deficiencies he hoped in his heart to find, and a distinct feeling of injury was in the Chief's heart as he found himself forced to order B Squadron to move off first—A, the leaders by right, not being yet ready. At the station, however, disaster at last arose, Williams and Rogers profiting by the occasion to slip away to the bazaar, where next day they were found by the garrison police very drunk. The consequence of this mishap was severe censure for Hector, Schofield remarking that such disgraces were to be expected in a squadron left to the care of non-commissioned officers.

CHAPTER VI

A few evenings later, with the dream-like rapidity with which life's scenery is constantly shifting behind its players, Hector was once more back in his Riwala home. Gone—flitted into the past—were the bare mud walls, stinking lanterns and camp-chairs of the Fort Hussein Mess; in their place the soft comfort and luxury of a drawing-room, each detail of which had been personally superintended by Lucy herself. Here now, warm and comfortable, he reclined in a huge arm-chair, his eyes dreamily gazing into the crackling log-fire before him, and his mind in the beatific state induced by the consumption of an excellent dinner and the subsequent inhaling of a Turkish cigarette.

Beside him, busy with the knitting of a yellow silk waistcoat, sat Lucy, a dainty figure in tea-gown of lemon and white, which was quite in harmony with the soft lights and colouring of her surroundings. Like the hen-pheasant, however, in gorgeousness of plumage she was quite out-shone by her lord, whose smoking-jacket of amethyst velvet, with buttons of pink crystal, amber silk shirt, and Russia leather slippers of the same hue, formed a somewhat striking picture. On his knee reposed a somnolent white cat, a species of animal he loved, which he was caressing with much tender solicitude.

"Hector, dear," said Lucy, suddenly breaking the silence, "I've got an idea."

"Have you, Lucy? Ow!" to the cat, "you old beggar you, put your claws out at father, would you? Come and tickle this chap's tummy, Lucy, and see him kick."

"Oh, put the thing down, it worries me to see you. Really, Hector, how a sporting person like yourself can adore a cat as you do is beyond me. If it was a dog now, I could sympathise, but—a cat."

"A dog, nasty fidgeting brutes; besides, every fellow in the regiment's got one, that alone's enough. As for my being sporting, so's a cat, the finest sportsman in the world, a genuine one too, hunts for his own pleasure, not to be thought a good fellow, like most men. What about that big lizard we caught this morning, eh, old Nimrod?" again addressing the unresponsive animal.

"To me they're like spiteful women, Hector."

"Just where you're wrong, Lucy, a cat's not a bit like a woman. They're restful, which a woman's not; they're independent; know what they want and get it, while a woman not only don't know her own mind, but always does the very reverse of what she preaches."

"Really, Hector, I'm sure you can't say that of me."

"There you are, Lucy, can't discuss a thing without taking it personally. Besides, you're as bad as any of them. You're always at me to become a keen soldier, yet, when the chance of active service comes along, you——"

"Dear, that's not fair, as I've told you before. You surely wouldn't like me not to care, Hector, like some wives?"

"I don't suppose I should, but it's not that I'm talking about, it's the inconsistency. But, about cats and women a cat only takes what it wants, a woman, on the contrary——"

"Oh, bother the cats! I want to talk about something else, the Regimental Cup to-morrow."

"When I propose to be ten miles away at Rarkat Jheel, quail shooting."

"Oh, but, Hector, you can't really. The regiment's At Home, and we must put in an appearance; besides, I should like it."

"Like it, a fifth-rate race-meeting?"

"Yes, I should. I'm not a hundred, Hector, and every woman wants a little gaiety at times. Of course I love going out shooting with you and all that, but I think just occasionally we might vary the programme a little."

"Oh, of course, if you're set upon it, Lucy, that's another matter, but it's a weary business."

"Only because you make it so, and take no part in things, Hector. The Regimental Cup, for instance, every officer but you is running something, no matter whether it's got a chance or not. You only are out of it, and I hate it—it looks so odd and unsporting. I know, of course, it's not that, but the others think so."

"Let them think what they like, I don't care. I'm not competing because I can't win. I'll play second fiddle to no one, least of all to O'Hagan, and nothing I've got could beat Matador, he's a racehorse, the rest are only polo ponies."

"Hector, I do hate that Captain O'Hagan."

"Really, why? I thought he rather liked you."

"Oh, he's civil enough to me, it's because of his rudeness to you I hate him. Hector, do you know what he said the other evening at the Club?"

"That he meant having me out of the regiment? Yes, I heard of it, Lucy."

"He dared to say it, Hector. Oh, I could kill him for it," and Lucy's breast heaved and her blue eyes flashed.

Hector laughed. "Perhaps he will, Lucy; he has all the others behind him, you know."

"But you mustn't allow it, you must fight him. I'll help you all I can. The Colonel likes me, I know; let's have the old man to dinner, Hector, and do him really well. Oh, Hector, do rouse yourself, it's not like you to submit tamely."

Hector looked at her, and, as he did so, the curious glitter in his eyes vanished. Rising, he went across to his wife and kissed her.

"I believe you'd stand by me, no matter what I did, Lucy."

Some strange note in his voice startled her; she looked up. "Hector, what do you mean?" she said quickly. "Oh, Hector dearest, you won't, you don't mean to do anything mad?"

At the fear in her voice, Graeme's half-parted lips shut tight. He picked up the cat, and, returning to his chair, resumed his contemplation of the flames, his face expressionless.

"Don't be alarmed, Lucy," he said, and it seemed to her that there was a shade of contempt in his tone, "and as for O'Hagan and his paltry schemes, leave the poor fool to me. I'm only letting him play a little, and when the time comes—and it's pretty close now—it's Bob O'Hagan who'll go under, not me. But, about this idea of yours, what is it, to go to-morrow? If so, I will, as you want it."

"It's more than that, Hector, I want you to ride in the race for the Cup."

"But what on?"

"Hermes, Captain Carruther's second string. He'd give you the mount, I know, for I asked him this afternoon. He's a good pony, Hector, and jumps well, though of course he can't beat Matador."

"He'd be just about last, Lucy. I last, no thank you. Sorry, I'd like to please you, but it can't be done. I'll go to the races, as you wish it, but a ride on old Hermes is rather too humiliating a proceeding. Hullo," looking up at the clock, "past eleven, and an early parade to-morrow morning. Time for bed. Come on, Lucy. You too, Fop, old man, no tiles for Romeo to-night," Hector rose, and having lighted Lucy's candles, departed to his dressing-room, the cat hanging limply in his arms.

CHAPTER VII

"Sporting lot your fellows are, to be sure, Bob. Damme, the whole blessed regiment seems to be going for the Cup this afternoon."

The speaker, Captain Legge, a thin-faced rat of a man hailing from Bangalore, formed one of a group assembled in the ante-room of the Officers' Mess, 1st Lancers, discussing the past luncheon, coffee, cigars, and the race-card.

"Have to be, Tabby, or clear out," answered O'Hagan, glancing towards the far corner of the room, where Graeme was sitting, chuckling over the "Cat Derby," as depicted by Louis Wain. "Don't like unsporting fellows with us, don't keep 'em either. Hi! you," to a passing khitmagar[#] "liqueur brandy, jeldi, you soor,[#] d'ye hear?" his heavy eyes glaring at the man, who sullenly departed on his mission.

[#] A native waiter.

[#] "Quick, you pig."

"Grandee on the job to-day, Tabby?" asked Major Ramp, a racing gunner from Calcutta.

"Backing him myself, Barabbas, if that's any use to you," was the answer; "ought to be a pinch, now the Ferret's not goin'."

"Why didn't you buy him in the lotteries last night then, Tabby?" said another, drooping his eyelid at O'Hagan.

"I did, or rather Jackie did it for me, Cross; kept it quiet that way, and got him cheaper. That's right, ain't it, Jackie?"

"Quite," responded a squeaky voice, and Jackie, a meek-looking vet.—also hailing from Bangalore—thereupon produced a note-book from his pocket and began to turn over the pages.

"What about your own, though, Jackie," said Ramp; "he's in the same race, ain't he?"

"The old Tinker? No earthly, Ramp, been off his feed the last two days."

"Don't shout it to the Mess, hang it, man," said his patron, frowning at him.

"Sorry, Tabby, but we're all pals here, these fellows won't give it away, I know, especially if they want to back Grandee, and, if they take my tip, they will."

"Of course not," from all, and "Thank ye, Jackie. I'll bear it in mind," from Major Ramp, who, knowing the pair, made a mental note to leave that particular race alone.

"Matador's a certainty for your race, I suppose, Bob?" said Captain Brass.

"Moral, if he stands up, and he's never fallen yet. Got a pot on him, advise you fellows to do the same."

"Who's riding him, Bob?"

"Having a go myself. Must be one of the regiment, you know, which gives me rather a pull; give most of 'em seven pounds at least."

"I see old Cyclops is running, Bob; queer old devil, used to belong to us till Stainforth sold him to Carson. New game for him, racing, though, ain't it?"

O'Hagan looked round the room before answering. Strangely enough, he was frightened of Carson, though not in the least of Graeme. Seeing no sign of Peter, however, he replied boldly:

"Cyclops is not going. I stopped it. A race full of amateur jockeys is dangerous enough, without a one-eyed brute of a pony no one can hold joining in. So I just told Carson I wouldn't have it, and there was an end of it."

"Why ain't Graeme performing, Bob?" asked Brass. "He used to go like smoke at home with the Bicester."

"Captain Graeme don't ride now, except on parade, when he has to," answered O'Hagan, again glancing towards the corner and meeting Hector's eyes over the top of the paper. This was instantly raised, however, and encouraged by the surrender O'Hagan continued:

"What do you do with unsporting fellows in your regiment, Ramp?" he observed.

"Show 'em we don't want 'em," was the answer.

"But if they won't go, what then?"

"Get the Colonel to report badly on them, but surely Graeme..."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about him, of course, brother officer, you know, Ramp, and all that. Still," lowering his voice, though speaking very distinctly, "as you are aware, every regiment has its undesirables, useless fellows no one likes; one doesn't talk about it, of course, but there it is."

"He's a devilish good shot, is Graeme," said Brass, "best I ever saw, I think."

"Cavalry fellows ought to be fond of riding," squeaked Jackie, "that's their game, not shooting."

"Or go to the infantry," said O'Hagan.

"What the devil d'ye mean, O'Hagan?" said Legge, who belonged to that branch of the Service.

"I really beg your pardon, old chap. I always forget you ain't a cavalry man or a gunner"—remembering Ramp—"you're such a sporting cove. Have another brandy?"

"No, thank you, and I don't see why a fellow shouldn't care for shooting even if he is in the cavalry; it's sport just the same as racing. Besides, Graeme plays polo, don't he?"

"Oh yes, in a way. His real hobby's clothes and cats, though."

"Cats?"

"Yes, sleeps with a cat, I'm told. Jolly for his wife, eh what? Hullo," suddenly breaking off, with a look of well-feigned surprise and concern on his face, for Graeme had risen, and, apparently unconscious of his or the others' presence, was now making his way to the door, "there's the man himself," he added, Hector having disappeared, "now I have done it."

"Good Lord, O'Hagan, why the devil didn't you tell us he was there?" said Brass indignantly. "He must have heard every word."

"Well, if he did, he only knows what all of us think, and..."

"I think we ought to be making a move, O'Hagan," said Legge shortly; "it's past one now, and I'm riding in the first race. Come on, Jackie, you're always an hour decorating."

He rose, and, the others following his example, the party departed to their different quarters to dress.

Meanwhile Hector was walking rapidly away from the Mess on his way to Carson's bungalow. At the compound entrance he paused, and for a moment stood leaning against the gate, as if reflecting; then once more moved on, and, entering the house, came upon Peter engaged in the sorting of fishing-tackle.

"Hullo, Graeme," he said, "you're just the man I want. Help me to straighten this out, will you? it's kinked like blazes," whereupon, without answering, Hector sat down on the bed, and, taking up one end of the line, proceeded to disentangle it.

"Hands very shaky this morning, Graeme," said Carson. "Why the dickens don't you give up those infernal cigarettes and take to an honest pipe, like me? You look pretty seedy too; what's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing, want of exercise, I suppose. Think I'll go for a ride this afternoon."

"Can't. The regiment's At Home, and we've got to be there. Pity you didn't enter one of your ponies for the Cup, as I wanted you to; you'd have had your ride then."

"I wish I had now, I'd give something for a mount. I envy you old Cyclops, even."

"Cyclops is not going."

"And why not?"

"Because I don't want to break my neck, that's why."

"Break your neck be hanged. Cyclops is a devilish good jumper."

"All right, you ride him then; you're welcome."

"Thank you, Peter, I will. I'll go now and tell the sais to have him down on the course."

"You'll do nothing of the kind. I was only joking. D'you think I'm going to have your missus..."

"Where shall I find the sais?"

"I won't lend him, I tell you."

"Oh, want to back out of it, do you?"

"I never back out of anything; you know that perfectly well, Graeme."

"I used to think so."

"But..."

"Ah!"

"Oh, take the pony and be hanged to you. I don't want to lend him, I tell you that straight; but, since like a fool I offered the brute, you can have him. Break his neck if you like, your own too."

"Thank you very much, Peter, and will you or shall I have him sent down?"

"I will."

"Right, good-bye, you're coming yourself, I suppose?"

"Yes, with the ambulance for you."

"Good. I'll be off to dress," and Graeme, leaving Peter frowning at his knots, returned to his own bungalow, where he found Lucy awaiting him in the verandah.

"Where on earth have you been, Hector," she said, "and what's the matter?" staring at him.

"Nothing. I've been given a mount for the Regimental Cup, Lucy, just what you wanted, aren't you pleased?"

Lucy, however, did not look pleased. She stood, with her eyes still fixed on her husband's face.

"Why have you done this, Hector," she said after a pause, "rather a sudden idea, isn't it?"

"Oh, I know it seems changeable, Lucy, but I've been thinking about what you said last night, about its being unsporting not to ride, and so on. I'm really doing it more to please you than myself. Where are my things? I must hurry," trying to pass her as he spoke.

Lucy stopped him.

"Wait a minute, Hector," she said; "if it's only to please me you're riding, you needn't do it. I too have changed my mind; I'd rather now you didn't."

"And why not?"

"I don't think I quite know, but I don't wish you to. Let me send a note to Captain Carruthers, please, Hector, I'm sure he won't mind."

"This is absurd, Lucy; only last night you begged me to ride, and now that I've done what you ask, you——"

"I know it seems silly. Oh, Hector, I can't explain, but something tells me you ought not to. Please let me write that note."

"I certainly won't. I'm not going to be made a fool of like this," snatching at the chance of losing his temper, "and it's no good writing to Carruthers; it's Cyclops I'm riding, not Hermes."

"Cyclops," echoed Lucy, who knew the animal as she knew every pony, dog or child in the regiment. "Cyclops, oh, you can't mean it, Hector?"

"I do, though. Peter offered me the mount, and I've accepted. Oh, for goodness' sake be reasonable, Lucy; it's done now. Come and dress. Where are my things?"

"And you care so little for me as to ride a one-eyed bolting brute in a steeplechase," began Lucy furiously; then suddenly her anger passed, and coming close to her husband she laid her hand on his arm. "Hector, won't you for my sake give this up? It isn't often I ask anything of you, but now I do. Oh, dearest, please—please."

"And have Peter and the rest think I'm afraid? No, thank you."

"Hector, you know you don't care what they think. It's something to do with O'Hagan."

"Perhaps it is, Lucy; he called me 'unsporting' just now, and I'm going to show him I'm not. Once more, please tell me where my things are?"

"Hector, I implore you," began Lucy, and then, seeing his face, stopped. "You won't give this up then," she said, "whatever I say?"

"No; where are——"

"I don't know," she said violently, "and I don't care, find them yourself," and she left him, banging the door behind her as she went off to her room.

Here for an hour she remained, dawdling over her dressing, to the just indignation of Halling, her maid, who also proposed to go racing that afternoon under the escort of the regimental sergeant-major and his wife, and who, for the first time in her experience, found her mistress both trying and inconsiderate, and also for the first time sympathised with her master, stamping up and down the verandah outside.

At length, just as Hector had made up his mind to send for a horse and ride on without her, she emerged from her seclusion, and coldly asking him if he meant to come to the races that afternoon entered the waiting buggy, seized the reins, and drove off, Hector scrambling in after her. In silence they rattled down the broad mall, Lucy looking straight ahead and declining to answer Hector when he spoke, and after some narrow escapes from collision with passing gharries—for the lady was not driving with her customary skill—arrived on the scene of action.

To those accustomed to the greensward and trees of a British racecourse, that of Riwala would have come as a rather doleful surprise. Facing a great open stretch of dusty maidan, around which ran the track, rose the grand stand, a bare-looking edifice of wood and corrugated iron, surrounded by iron railings, forming the enclosure, where the various regiments of the garrison dispensed hospitality. For some hundred yards to the right and left of the stand the course, unmarked save by rows of whitewashed stones and a few flags, was shut in by a double row of wooden railings, the stand side and enclosure being reserved for the élite, that opposite for the [Greek: oi polloì] and such natives of the lower order as cared to attend.

The second race had just finished when Lucy and her husband arrived, and a babel of voices was rising on the air, bookmakers shouting their anxiety to pay on the winner, and spectators chattering to the accompaniment of brassy and somewhat unpleasing music from the band of the Queen's Own Purple Fusiliers.

All the notabilities of Riwala—almost, it might be said, of the Punjaub—were here assembled, mostly of military status, it is true, but nevertheless comprising a few civilians of importance, such as Mr. Timothy Qui Hye, the Commissioner, and, greater still, Sir Backshish Gussle Khana, Lieut.-Governor of the Punjaub—a very big man, and one conscious of his eminence, though, like some other great men, a little careless in his attire; his boots, of the kind known as "Jemima," and a "made-up" tie marring an otherwise irreproachable costume of decent black.

Many others were there too, though not of such eminence as his. Lady Pompom, for instance—the wife of Sir Julius Pompom, commanding the station of Dam Kot—a regal-looking lady, in a dress of imperial purple, surmounted by a white solar topee tastefully decorated with yellow flowers. A crowd of youths were about her, for Lady Pompom was fond of boys, designating them "young people of my own age." Some of these young people, it is true, looked as though they would like to be elsewhere, but no such defection was possible, as well they knew, for that would mean the official displeasure of Sir Julius, with, possibly, consequent stoppage of leave, and even—such things had been known—nasty remarks in confidential reports.

Those two ladies yonder, who were so warmly yet carefully embracing—a loving handclasp, a peck on the right place, a "How sweet you look!" and the thing was done—were Mrs. Warmon, the wife of Major Warmon of the 250th Mesaltchis, and her friend and foe, Mrs. Charpoy, better half of Colonel Charpoy, commanding the Purple Fusiliers. Rival beauties of Riwala, they hated each other right well, hence the warmth of the embrace; and both being a trifle touched up, this accounted for their care in bestowing the kiss, which operation completed they parted and spoke to each other no more that day.

Forlorn and unattended, on the steps of the grand stand, sat the two Game girls, their eyes roving in search of male recognition. This was their third year in the country, but, though hitherto unappropriated, hope was far from dead in their somewhat flat bosoms. Possibly the net may have been spread a little too openly in the sight of the bird, but, be this as it may, gamebag and creel were still empty, and the Misses Game remained, and were likely to remain, the Misses Game.

Into this throng walked Lucy, Hector following. She was all smiles, now that there were others to see—a trim, sporting-looking figure in brown, with a hat of the same colour, touched with vermilion, and smart, laced-up patent-leather boots. Not for long, however, was she suffered to remain with her husband, a cluster of young men soon surrounding her, all anxious to give her tea, show her their ponies, any pretext to draw her away for a little private conversation. For Lucy, unlike Hector, was a popular person with all, from the great Sir Backshish himself to little Tickler Macpherson, the dusky daughter—one of fourteen—of Dugald Macpherson, Assistant Commissioner of Riwala, Highland of name though café au lait in hue.

Reputed inaccessible to lovemakers, too, was Mrs. Graeme, which quality, and the ready sympathy she showed with their various husband, lover, and servant troubles, endeared her to the women, in spite of her looks and clothes; while at the same time it rendered her conquest incumbent on all self-respecting shikaris of ladies.

Eventually Captain Knowles, proficient at the game of love-making, wrested the prize from the other competitors, somewhat to his own surprise, for, though for some time he had done his best, he could not pretend that that best had been crowned with any measure of success. To-day, however, there was a welcome change in the lady's manner—she no longer chilled but smiled upon his efforts, ignoring her husband, to whom the gay captain, as she knew, was anathema. To her annoyance, Hector showed none of his usual signs of restiveness at the other's presence; on the contrary, he rather abetted his endeavours to please, and, on Knowles suggesting tea, handed her over willingly, and, turning away, was soon lost to view in the crowd. For a moment Lucy stood looking blankly after him, but, speedily rallying, expressed a desire for shelter from the sun, and Knowles, instantly responding, led her away in triumph, and was shortly afterwards comfortably seated beside his booty in the darkest corner of one of the big marquees.

"Thank Heaven," muttered Hector, "I'm alone at last, now, what's to be done to pass the time? Confound this waiting, my nerves are all anyhow. Hullo, there's Cyclops, I'll go and have a look at him." He walked away to where a native was standing holding a pony, a dun-coloured beast, rusty-coated and hideous. One of his eyes was gone, the result of a blow from the fork of a revengeful sais, whose arm Cyclops had playfully chawed; the other was small, and, as usual, vindictive-looking.

Not an engaging-looking mount for a steeplechase, it must be admitted, though the look of the brute appeared at the present moment to give satisfaction to Graeme, particularly the red eyeless socket, at which he attentively gazed. Nevertheless, despite his unengaging appearance, Cyclops had his good points, being hard as nails, a perfect fencer, and possessing the pluck of the devil with the temper of a fiend.

"Khabadar,[#] sahib," said his guardian, as Hector came up. "Ai bainchute,"[#] jerking at the bridle just in time to save Graeme's arm from bared yellow teeth, "Hamesha aisa hai, sahib, bôt bobbery bainchute wallah."[#]

[#] Look out.

[#] An untranslatable term of abuse reflecting on female relations.

[#] "Always like this, sir, a violent..."

"Horrid beast," muttered Graeme, looking at him. "I'll take the steam out of you, my friend; there won't be much bobbery about you when I've done." He walked away, and stood for a moment leaning over the enclosure rails. As he did so, a thunder of hoofs struck on his ears, and Tabby Legge flew past, his mount, a splendid chestnut Arab, fighting for his head as he went.

"Grandee," said Graeme, "that's the certainty, is it? Hum, and here's Tinker, Jackie up too, 'tisn't often he rides. Betty still to come—oh, here she is. Lord, what a commoner, different class altogether. I wonder what they're up to, some silly knavery, I suppose, from the way they talked in the Mess. It can't be Grandee, or they wouldn't have said so; still, that might be part of the swindle, for they know no one would believe them. All the same, I don't think it's Grandee, but Tinker, especially as Jackie's riding, they know they'd get a better price with him up. Hope to goodness they get done, though I don't see how they're going to, unless Betty wins, and she can't if the others stand up. Hullo, they're off, and one left at the post, which is it, Grandee, I suppose? No, it isn't; it's Tinker, then they do mean Grandee, after all. Funny, I could have sworn it was the other.

"Lord, it's a procession," looking through his glasses at the chestnut, who was leisurely cantering ahead of the already labouring Betty. "Well, that's over," lowering his glasses and turning away. "Why, what's up?" a sudden roar from the crowd rising on the air. "Good Lord," his eyes turned once more on the course, "Good Lord," for passing him was Betty, alone; some distance away, off the track, being Grandee, plunging and fighting with his rider. The favourite had run out. "Now, what the devil have they been up to?" muttered Hector. "Betty wasn't backed, I know. Aha, I have it, Tabby thought it was Jackie behind him, not knowing that rascal had been left, and pulled out to let him win"—which was the exact situation.

"Splendid that is, quite bucked me up; and now to dress, my race is next. I wish I didn't feel so shaky, though; my heart's going like a dynamo, and I can hardly breathe. Curious, what a nerve-ridden beggar I am, always like this beforehand, though once I'm started I don't care twopence. Anyone to look at me would say I was in a blue funk, and so I am really, or rather one part of me is; the other's right enough 'You tremble, carcass,'" he quoted half aloud, "'you'd tremble still more if you knew where I was going to take you.' Gad, you would. Ah, here's the tent. Lord, what a crowd! Most of them too, from the look of them, in a worse funk than I am. Got the colours, Abdul?" to his bearer, "All right, leave them here. I can dress myself," and Graeme, sitting down, proceeded to array himself in Peter Carson's chocolate and blue, after which he put on his overcoat, and, having been duly weighed, set off for Cyclops' stall, where he found Lucy and Carson surveying that ill-favoured beast.

"Oh, here you are at last, Graeme," said Peter; "we've been looking for you everywhere. Thought you'd given it up and gone home. I should, if I were you, Cyclops is not quite at his best to-day."

"What's the matter with him? He looks all right, anyway he's got to go."

"Hector, I wish you'd give it up," said Lucy, laying her hand on his arm; "for my sake, please do."

"Nonsense, Lucy, it's all right. Cyclops won't fall, will he, Peter?"

"I wouldn't bet about it; he might; I wouldn't trust him."

"You see, Hector, even his owner doesn't think it safe. Besides, you're not fit to ride; you look so white and strange, doesn't he, Captain Carson?"

"Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Graeme, a bit pale perhaps, but that doesn't go for much." Then aside to Hector. "You look like a ghost, man, don't be a fool, give it up, as your wife wants you to. It's not the game to frighten her like this."

"There's the bell," answered Hector. "Give me a leg up, Peter. Hold his head, confound you," to the sais. "All right, I'm up. Chor do.[#] Steady, you brute," and Graeme rode away, Cyclops now as quiet as a lamb.

[#] Let go.

"Oh, Captain Carson, I do hate it so," said Lucy, looking after him, "I feel certain something's going to happen."

"Not it, Mrs. Graeme, see how nice and quiet the pony's going."

"But he'll bolt as soon as they start, and Hector has no experience of race-riding."

"Nor have the rest; he's as good as most of them, anyway. Don't worry, Mrs. Graeme, but come and watch the race. Where would you like to see it from, the grand stand?"

"No, I'll stay here, I think. Don't let me keep you, though, Captain Carson, I shall be all right."

"I'd rather remain with you if I may. Hullo, there's the trumpet; they're off. Here they come. Cyclops leading."

"Surely he's bolted, oh, he has—he has."

"Not he, always goes a bit free to start with: he'll soon settle down, you'll see. Ah, well over, did you see that, Mrs. Graeme, yards to spare?"

"Where's Matador?"

"Behind, Lord, what a mover he is, only cantering."

"Who's that down, surely it's my husband?"

"No, it isn't, it's Falconer on Sultan; but he's up again now and on. Look how well Cyclops is going, a good twenty lengths ahead, if only he could keep it up."

"Where's Matador now?"

"Still behind; O'Hagan will leave it too long if he don't take care. Ah, there he is coming up now, leaving the rest standing; by Jove, he and Cyclops are almost abreast, both going for the open ditch. Good—good God! ... It's all right, Mrs. Graeme, it's all right, I tell you. Your husband's up and walking about. Take my glasses and look for yourself, they're better than yours."

"But the other—the other, is he up too?"

"Can't see yet, these glasses are so infernally bad. Mrs. Graeme, do you mind if I leave you?"

"No, no, go quickly; get there first before them," pointing to a stream of people flowing across the maidan towards the open ditch. "Bring him straight back to me. I'll have the buggy waiting there by those trees. Oh, my God, what a fool I was not to have understood, you too, Captain Carson, it's as much your fault ... Why didn't you refuse?"

"Because I was a blind idiot. Hi you," advancing on a sais holding a pony hard by, "give up that ghora[#] at once."

[#] Horse.

"Smit sahib's pony," said the man, not moving.

"Don't care who's it is; let go, I say, or——" raising his stick.

He snatched the reins from the terrified native, and flinging himself into the saddle galloped away, belabouring the pony as he went. It was a race, but Carson won, and reaching his goal, a good hundred yards abreast of the leading man, sprang to the ground and ran up to where Graeme was standing, looking down on a huddled heap of white and scarlet at his feet. A few yards away lay Cyclops, his neck outstretched and one eye sightlessly staring, while away in the distance, with reins trailing and stirrups flapping, Matador could be seen, galloping gaily homeward. Seeing Peter, Hector turned and hurried to meet him.

"Can't get rid of him, can't we, Peter?" he cried. "Well, I have, I've done what you couldn't do, old man, he's gone now, right enough, he and Cyclops together, come and see."

Carson seized him by the shoulder, crushing it in his grip.

"Hold your tongue, you fool," he whispered, "look behind you; they'll be here in a minute. D'you want to hang? Oh yes, I'll come and see. God help you," and, still holding him fast, he hurried on to where O'Hagan was lying.

"O'Hagan," he called, "get up, man, get up," and then, no answer coming from the heap, he knelt down beside it, and tearing open the silken jacket felt for its heart. For a few seconds he remained kneeling, the clamour from behind growing rapidly louder, and then rose to his feet once more.

"You're right, Graeme," he said quietly; "quite right, you have done it."

"What's happened, who is it?" said a breathless voice, echoed by others. The spectators had arrived.

"O'Hagan, dead," answered Carson. "Oh, keep away, man; have you no sense of decency? Where's a doctor?"

"Who's the other? Rode right into him. Most deliberate thing I ever saw in my life. I saw it quite plainly through my glasses."

Carson spun round, facing the speaker, his eyes blazing.

"Who was it said that, who was it, I say? Don't stand skulking behind there, whoever you are, but come out and say it like a man. Some poor loser, I suppose, with five rupees on Matador, whining because he's lost. Come out, I say, if you've a spark of pluck in you," but to the invitation there was no response; the speaker declined to show himself.

"You want to know about it, do you? All right, you shall. I'll tell you as I told old Peter here. Three weeks ago in Fort Hussein I——"

"I know you did, old boy, you were quite right too; it was my fault for lending you an infernal one-eyed brute. Can't you see the man's had concussion, and don't know what he's saying?" he continued, addressing the crowd.

"One-eyed," said a voice, "that accounts for it then."

"That accounts for it, as you say. Thank God, here's a doctor at last. It's O'Hagan, Sarel."

"Bad?"

"Neck broken, I think."

"Good God! and what about Graeme there? He looks pretty queer."

"I'm not queer at all. I'm perfectly clear. I'll tell you how it happened. It's a long story, but——"

"Graeme, your wife's waiting for you. She's anxious naturally, and I promised her I'd bring you back at once, you can tell me all about it as we go, I'd like to hear. Out of the way, please," to the crowd, who obediently formed a lane, and still holding him firmly by the arm Peter hurried Graeme away to where Lucy was standing.

"Is the buggy ready, Mrs. Graeme?" he said, not looking at her. "Yes, there it is; well, get him home as quickly as possible. Keep him with you, don't let him speak to anyone. He's a bit light-headed, you see," he explained, looking away, "don't quite know what he's saying; been talking awful rot."

For a moment Lucy looked at the speaker, but still he refused to meet her eye.

"I ... understand, Captain Carson," she said at last, and then shivered slightly and turned away.

"Who's light-headed? What the devil do you mean, Peter, and where's Cyclops? Hullo, Lucy, what are you doing here?"

"You've had a fall, dear. The race is over."

"Over, where's O'Hagan?"

"And I want you to take me back. I—I'm cold," and again Lucy shivered.

"Matador, O'Hagan, what of them?"

"Never mind about that now, Hector."

"I will know, I must know, where are they?"

Lucy looked questioningly at Peter; the latter nodded in answer.

"Captain O'Hagan's hurt, Hector."

"Is he dead, is he dead?"

Again Carson nodded, but this time there was no response from Lucy; he looked quickly up, and then, moving forward, stood almost touching her.

"O'Hagan is dead, Graeme," he said; "you may as well know it now as later. Oh, for goodness' sake, get your wife into the trap and be off. Can't you see she's nearly fainting?"

"Dead," echoed Hector, a deep sigh rising from his breast; then suddenly his mouth closed firmly, and he straightened himself.

"God! what an awful thing," he said. "How did it happen?"

"Oh, never mind that now, you'll hear all about it later. Get your wife home."

"Why, what's the matter, Lucy, you look pretty bad, shaken I suppose? Come along." Putting his arm round her, he supported her towards the waiting buggy, and with Carson's help lifted her in and tucked the rugs round her.

"Good-bye, Peter," he said, taking up the whip, "and thanks for what you've done. Talked awful nonsense, I suppose, didn't I? Must have had concussion. By the way, what time will the funeral be to-morrow, early, do you think?"

Peter stared at him, but Graeme's eyes met his boldly.

"I suppose it will," he said at last. "I'll come round to-night and let you know."

"Oh, don't trouble. I shall get the orders."

"I'll be round at half-past nine. I want to know how your wife is. Good-bye, Mrs. Graeme," and Peter raised his hat and walked quickly away.

* * * * *

Nine o'clock had struck. Once more Hector and Lucy sat together in the softly lighted drawing-room, the former a trifle pale, but otherwise in no way changed from the man of twenty-four hours before, the latter haggard-faced, with dark lines under the eyes that stared into the flames.

Now and again she would glance up furtively at her husband, her eyes curiously wondering as they took in the sheen of silk and velvet, the cat slumbering on his knee, and the air of placid content pervading his whole being; then, with a shiver, she would turn away and resume her contemplation of the fire. For, like Peter, Lucy failed to understand. Suddenly her lips began to tremble and her eyes to fill with tears; for a moment she remained fighting against it, and then, abandoning the effort, flung herself on her knees beside Hector, sobbing wildly:

"Oh, Hector, speak, say something; it's awful to see you, I can't bear it, I can't, I can't."

Graeme stroked her hair, and, bending down, kissed her.

"Hush, dear," he said gently, "you'll only make yourself ill, and after all, Lucy, it wasn't you who did it; it was I. Take it as I do. I don't..."

"It's that which is killing me, Hector, your not caring. Oh dear, can't you realise the—the—horror of it all?"

Hector frowned.

"I'm not a hypocrite, Lucy," he said slowly, "why should I pretend to care when I don't? I hated the fellow, so did you. Why this fuss then now?"

"Fuss, oh, my God, Hector, are you human, that you can talk of it like that?"

"I honestly don't understand you, Lucy, are you going to say now you wish the man back?"

"I'd give all I've got, Hector, for him to be alive again. I'd give even my sight, and there's nothing worse than blindness. Hate him, of course I hated him. I hate him now more than ever, because this afternoon was his fault. Oh, can't you understand it's not of him I'm thinking, but of you, Hector, you?"

"You think they—there'll be unpleasantness over this, Lucy? Well, if there is, I'm ready for it. They can't call you as a witness, though, that's one thing. A wife, you know——"

"I would insist on being called. I would force my way in."

Hector stared.

"You—you mean you'd give me away, Lucy? Jeanie Dean's conscience, eh?"

"And I'd lie and lie and lie! I'd go through hell for you, Hector, you can trust me, dear, not to fail you."

Again Hector stared.

"You beat me, Lucy," he said, "you go for me for doing it, and then want to perjure yourself to pull me through. But, look here, indiscriminate lying won't help us, we must have the story pat, and stick to it like bird-lime. Hullo, someone outside, come for me already, have they?"

"It's only Captain Carson, Hector; he said he'd be here, you know, at the half-hour."

"Did he? I forgot. Think he knows, Lucy? I can't remember what I said. I was off my head at the time."

"He knows everything, but he won't speak; you can trust him. Here he is."

"Leave us, Lucy; we must have this out together."

"But you won't lose your temper, Hector, you won't abuse him?"

"Not I, I'm like an angel to-night. Go, Lucy, please," and Lucy went, Peter entering by the other door as the curtain dropped behind her.

"Glad to see you, Peter. Have a drink?"

"No, thank you, Graeme."

"Cigarette, then? No, I know you won't. Fill that old pipe of yours and sit down. Match? Here you are."

A pause.

"Well, Peter?"

"How's Mrs. Graeme?"

"All right, thank you; you've not asked after my health, though."

Another pause.

"So that's what you wanted Cyclops for, Graeme?"

"I'll give you the pick of my stable, if that's what you're after, Peter."

"Was it a sudden idea?"

"No, that afternoon at Fort Hussein. I saw it was the only way, since then I've been waiting. If I'd failed this time I'd have done it later. I knew, though, I shouldn't fail, I meant it, you see."

"Good God!"

"Why do you say that?" burst out the other with sudden passion. "I only did what you and half the others wanted in your hearts. Oh, I'll be candid with you; you know most of it, anyway, and you played the game this afternoon. That fellow was a plague spot, Peter; he was ruining the regiment, though for that I don't care two pins; it was when he put himself up against me that I took a hand. And he did attack me, you know that, Peter, insulted me, blackguarded me behind my back, said I was a coward, and vowed he'd have me out of the regiment."

He paused. Peter said nothing, only watched the other's face, for this was a changed Graeme to him, and, as he looked, he began to understand a thing he had never quite been able to before: how Private Mortlock's body had been recovered that August morning, six months before.

Graeme resumed, in the same tone of concentrated purpose. "Well, Peter; when anyone goes for me, I hit back, not as most do, blow for blow, wasting their strength, but with one blow only, and I take care that one has not to be repeated, Peter, it settles the matter for good and all. That's what I've done with O'Hagan, and that I'll do with anyone or anything which comes up against me. It was him or me; can't you understand? There was no room for us both, I had to kill him, myself, or both. And now you know, what do you propose to do—give me away?

"'And Hector Graeme walked between

With gyves upon his wrist.'

Is that it? Do, if you like and can."

"For God's sake, no levity, man."

"That's another thing. You, and my wife too, seem to expect me to show penitence, to cry over what I've done. Why? I'm glad, not sorry; why should I then pretend a sorrow, like the Walrus with the oysters?"

Peter stared at him, with bewilderment in his eyes, as there had been a few minutes before in Lucy's.

"Because," he said slowly, "because you're a human being, Graeme."

"Well, I don't feel it, not in the slightest degree, and I'm not going to sham."

Carson rose, and for a moment stood looking down at him.

"Graeme," he said, "you and I have been friends since you joined ten years ago, and, well, I stand by my friends, and do not give them away, whatever they do; their actions are matters for their own consciences, not mine. Of this afternoon I'll never speak again; it's a thing, I confess, beyond my understanding; let it remain at that and be buried. Only you—you must see it can never be quite the same between us again; you do see that, don't you?"

"No, I don't."

"I can't help that; it is so, for me, at all events. But one thing I promise you: no one outside shall see it; they must not. We must be careful, for ... your wife's sake. Good-night, Graeme."

"Good-night, Peter."

CHAPTER VIII

The hill station of Chillata lay seething in the summer rains. This queer, rambling place, the hot-weather capital of India, is a collection of houses strewn seemingly haphazard along the crest and slopes of a fir-clad ridge, or rather chain of hills, some three miles in length and many thousand feet above the level of the plains. On all sides of the ridge the ground falls steeply away; on the south towards the plains, a haze-veiled vista of brown flat, stretching unbroken to the horizon; on the north, east and west to a succession of forest-clad hills and valleys, beyond which rises a chain of snow-capped mountains. Running along the crest of the ridge lies the one metalled road, the main artery of the place, bordering which stand the various European dwellings. These are few and far apart towards the western extremity, but increase in number as the road runs on eastward, till finally they merge into the town itself, a heterogeneous mass of shops, Government buildings, and native bazaar.

Such in brief was, and is, Chillata, the summer residence of British official might and majesty in India, and consequently, during that season, the resort of all that is most select and fashionable in the country. In the hot weather of the year 1900, however, thoughts other than those of social pursuits and sport were occupying the minds of most men. The British Empire was at war in distant South Africa, and so far, though close on a year had elapsed since its beginning, no sign of the end was at hand, and the fate of England still rocked in the balance.

Still, even this fact, patent though it was to all, failed to interfere appreciably with Chillata enjoyments, for to human nature it is not public but individual interests that matter; and even a toothache is of far greater moment to him who feels it than the fate of a hundred empires. Thus it came about that, so far from proving a damper, the war acted as a stimulant to the enjoyment of Chillata youth; the ever-present possibility of harrowing partings added zest to love-making between the sexes; waltz tunes gained in enchantment; and hearts thrilled in response to stirring martial ballad.

In high official quarters a somewhat different view prevailed, for here were men with a stake in the country, oldish men to whom waltz tune and martial ballad failed to appeal—their time for that was past. Unlike the others, they, being more largely interested, were able to take a larger view, and thus realised that England's downfall would certainly involve that of India, and consequently their own, a very serious matter indeed. Here faces were grave—the higher the official, the graver the face—as, deaf to the gay glamour rising from the Mall outside, they sat in dingy offices anxiously deliberating or wrestling with increasing correspondence.

In one of these offices, a bare and cheerless apartment, situated in the huge brick edifice forming the Military Offices of Chillata, a man sat busily writing one September morning—a thick-set man, with bristling black hair and round, staring eyes, last seen one August morning in Fort Hussein, now a brigadier in rank and Adjutant-General to the Indian forces. On the table before him lay a pile of letters, fat-looking documents in long official envelopes, both white and blue, most of them marked "Urgent," "Very Urgent," or "Confidential." These he was opening in turn, rapidly reading, and answering on slips of yellow paper, which he carefully pinned to the various documents, and threw into tin trays placed on the floor beside him for removal and subsequent engrossment by his clerks.

A knock at the door was heard. "Come in, come in," he muttered, and Captain de Boudoir, Star Comedian of the Chillata A.D.C., appeared. To prevent the departure of this officer for the plains, and consequent disappointment to the public, he had been retained as staff officer, despite protest, to the Adjutant-General to the Forces, the Intelligence Department—the natural refuge of such as he—being unfortunately full up at the time.

"In an hour, De Boudoir," said Quentin, "I'm not ready for you yet. No, it's no good asking for a morning off; I won't give it you for fifty rehearsals."

"But, sir, this evening, sir, his Excellency's coming. Hoped you would too, sir."

"Bah! You can't go, I tell you. What's that, a card? I won't see him, whoever he is."

"He won't go, sir; it's Captain Pushful; he's here every day."

"What does he want?"

"Usual thing, sir—South Africa."

"Tell him to go to blazes. I have work enough, as it is, without being worried by every fool who wants to go battle-fighting. Confound it, De Boudoir, what the devil's the good of you if you can't——. Hullo! what the—who the dickens is this?" for the door had gently opened, and a head appeared, its eyes beaming upon him.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said an insinuating voice, and thereupon a body followed the head, "but could you spare me a minute? I won't keep you long sir."

"Who the devil are you?"

"My name is Pushful, sir. I think, sir, I'm a connection of yours by marriage. My sister——"

"Turn him out, De Boudoir. Oh, damn it all, this is——"

"My sister Mary, sir, married your second cousin William. 'Boodles' we used to call him, because——"

"Really, sir, I fail to see——"

"And Boodles told me to be sure and look you up."

"Tell me what you want, sir, and go."

"I thought, sir, perhaps you would see your way to get me out to South Africa, and——"

"Send in an application then. Good-day."

"I have, sir, six already."

"Send another then, and I'll consider it."

"Thank you, sir, and you will——"

"Oh yes, yes. Good-day, and De Boudoir," as the door closed behind the visitor, "when that application comes, put it where the others go, in the basket; d'ye understand?"

"Very good, sir, anything more?"

"No. Yes, there is. Do you know a Captain Graeme, 1st Lancers? I thought I saw him the other day."

"Yes, sir; he's here on two months' leave. She's been in Chillata since April, living at Dilkhusha, the house the Pennants had last year."

"If you see him to-day, will you tell him I want him? If you don't, send a note."

"Very well, sir. I'll get my pony, and go there now."

"No, you won't; you'll stay where I can get at you, in your office. Go this afternoon if you like, till then work. That will do, thank you," upon which De Boudoir sorrowfully withdrew, cursing the fate that had placed him here, instead of with his friends in the Intelligence Department.

"I'd like to give the fellow a chance," muttered Quentin; "he was badly treated over that last affair. Colonel would not even recommend him for a transport billet"—for in this way had Schofield saved his face on Hector's refusal—"and he was wrong, I'm sure of it; the fellow's got stuff in him, if it can be got out, that I'll swear, though I only saw him for a few minutes. Well, I'll give it to him, and damn the recommendation." He sat thinking for a moment, then plunged once more into his correspondence.

* * * * *

Three miles away, the subject of these reflections was idly lounging in the breakfast-room of Dilkhusha, a fair-sized two-storied building lying among the fir-woods at the extreme western end of the Chillata range. Nearly three years had elapsed since a certain fateful Riwala race-meeting, three uneventful years, spent in the manner usual to Anglo-Indians in India. Two more Regimental Cup races had been won and lost, but on neither occasion had Hector competed, nor even been present as a spectator. With Lucy's full concurrence, nay, urging, he had shut up their bungalow and departed with her on shooting trips to the hills. During these three years Lucy's health had gradually declined, till she was now but a wreck of her former self; that she had been too long in India was the opinion of most, while the doctors declared that it was a nervous breakdown, started probably by the shock of the Cup incident, and in this perhaps they were right, for illness and Lucy had had little acquaintance before that event.

It is true there had been no trouble over the matter, or suggestion of foul riding on Hector's part; on the contrary, much sympathy had been expressed with them both for the pain and grief they must be foiling. A letter had also been received from O'Hagan's mother, a sad letter, for it appeared that, whatever his other feelings, the dead man had been a good and devoted son, but she in no way blamed Hector for his share in her son's death. It was even worse for him than for her, she wrote, and from where he was now, Robert, she knew, forgave him as fully as she herself did.

Hector, having read the above, when handed to him by his wife, had absently rolled it into a spill, and was proceeding to light a cigarette with it, when Lucy had snatched it from him and hurried away to her room, where she had sobbed on her bed for hours. One consolation was hers, and that was the obvious avoidance of her by Peter Carson. When they met, as was sometimes unavoidable, he was always friendly, more so even than before, but he took care not to meet her eye; and he did not come to the house at odd times, as was his wont. Finally, he had left Riwala for a year's shooting expedition to Eastern Africa, and, though the twelve months was nearly up, she would not see him again—not for a long time, at any rate—for shortly she too would be gone, leaving the hateful country, she hoped, for good. She and her husband, a few months hence, would be at home, a course urged upon Hector by the doctors for over a year, but which Lucy had refused to follow till he could accompany her. At last, after many refusals, Colonel Schofield had agreed to Captain Graeme's going in October, three months ahead, not a day before.

A change now was more than ever imperative for Lucy, on whom, in addition to her other troubles, a further burden had been laid—one for which she had always longed, but which in her present feeble condition threatened to overwhelm her. To all the doctors' entreaties, to go home in the spring and let Hector follow her six months later, she refused to listen, her only concession being to spend the hot weather in Chillata, instead of remaining in Riwala with her husband as she originally intended.

Here he would be able to run up for the very few days' leave he could hope to obtain. They would be in the same country, at any rate, and if he were ill she would know at once, and have a home ready for him to come to; whereas, by the other plan, thousands of miles of sea would be between them, and anything might happen to him even without her knowing—things in India occurred with such appalling suddenness.

Hector, on his part, had done his best. He had rented one of the best, though unfashionably situated, houses in Chillata, and personally superintended every detail for her comfort. He even accompanied her on the long, tedious fifty-mile carriage drive up the hill, a special comfortable landau having been chartered by him for the journey, instead of the ordinary two-wheeled tonga usually employed by travellers to that place. This was a most unwonted attention on Hector's part, who had hitherto held himself aloof from all such matters, leaving them to be dealt with by Lucy, even to such details as the packing of his personal belongings and arrangements for the transport of ponies, etc.

Like Lucy, he too had changed much of late, and now showed a consideration and affection of which even she would never have believed him capable. Of what had brought this about she was ignorant, nor did Hector himself know exactly. Remorse for O'Hagan's death was certainly not the cause, or even regret for the pain caused to his wife; nevertheless he too had been shaken, not by the act itself—the memory of which troubled him not at all—but by the revelation within him of some tremendous capacity for evil, rendering him a thing apart from his fellows. The knowledge of this for a time had shaken even his callous soul, and given birth to a feverish desire to be as others are, to feel as they felt, to live as they lived.

With this feeling within him, he laid himself out to please Lucy, anticipating her every want and devoting himself to her to an extent that caused Graeme's uxoriousness, as it was called, to become a byword, especially in Chillata, where connubial devotion was a somewhat unusual thing. Hector was far too desperately in earnest to care for the world's sneers; they didn't know what his object was, how should they? He redoubled his efforts, and now that a child was to be born to them strove with all his might to interest himself in the baby's coming—little liking as he had for children—for in the cultivation of such purely natural feelings as affection for wife and child, he realised dimly, could he hope to stifle the monster of whose existence he alone was aware.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, for her, Lucy knew nothing of all this. She was too sane and healthy-minded to be able to comprehend such a nature as her husband's, and with the curious fatality that had always marked her dealings with him, she now, instead of aiding, rather frustrated his efforts, and always, sadly enough, to her own undoing. It was not want of tact on her part, for of that quality Lucy had more than most, but simply that, being so normal herself, the comprehension of the abnormal was beyond her understanding; and, though touched and pleased with her husband's constant wish to be always with her, she yet fought against it, believing that he stayed solely to please her. With this idea in her mind, she was constantly urging him to leave her, and mix more with his kind; it was unnatural, she declared, for a man to wish to remain in the house all day with, at most, an hour's walk as his sole exercise. Of course, it was sweet of him to wish to be with her, and she appreciated the thought, but she would much rather he didn't; she could get on very well by herself, and he would always be home before dark.

Hector, driven in upon himself, would go off on long solitary rides—the worst thing for him—leaving Lucy happy in the consciousness of an unselfish action. How well she understood him, she thought, and what a dear he was. True, there was that one episode of the race-meeting—to which she owed the present state of her nerves—but even for that she had by now come to account. It had been an accident after all, she was certain, and Hector, to gratify his vanity, had made out it was intentional, and was hence naturally unable to feel the remorse, which she and Peter Carson, in their ignorance, had expected of him. Callous? Not he, why, every action of his since then had shown him to be the very reverse.

Gradually, braced by the clear Chillata air, and the prospect of a speedy return home, Lucy, though still feeble, had somewhat recovered, and with the arrival of her husband, on a quite unexpected two months' leave, was now almost happy. For the first two weeks after his coming she had been somewhat anxious, for talk in Chillata was almost exclusively of war, and the place thronged with applicants to be sent out to South Africa. Only too well did she realise Hector's vanity, and feared that he also, solely from a morbid disinclination to be left in the background, might in his turn apply; and she knew he would certainly succeed, as he always did, when those dreadful sudden fits of determination came upon him. It was therefore with a feeling of heartfelt relief that she saw him, apparently, in no way interested in the matter, though, had she known his mind, it is possible she would not have been so lighthearted on the subject, and would have been more than ever touched by a further proof of his devotion. For exactly what she had feared was in her husband's mind, and for that reason Hector avoided Chillata assemblies like the plague, refused to attend the theatre, despite Lucy's urgings, and, when obliged to pass that way, hurried by the Military Offices without a glance.

He was now, on this September morning, brooding over the subject, a crumpled copy of the Pioneer in his hand, detailing some fresh disaster, which he felt bitterly, had he been in command, would have been no defeat, but a brilliant success. For a week without intermission it had rained steadily, rendering even the short morning and evening walks impossible; and day after day, night after night, the rain had poured drearily down, rattling on the corrugated iron of the roof, turning Lucy's small garden into a quagmire, and shrouding the surrounding hills and valleys with a pall of white vapour. Small streams had become torrents; hill paths running rivulets; while from weeping fir-tree and chestnut sounded the continuous drip of water on dank fern and rotting vegetation. As Hector looked and heard, a feeling of depression came over him, and with it that other self began to make itself heard. The longing came over him to be off at once to the Military Offices, send in his application, and go, for despite the constant refusal to others, he had no doubt of success, were he to apply.

"Three weeks more of this," he reflected, "then two months' idling in the plains, and after that home, a year's loafing again, while others are making names and passing me. It's that which galls me, being out of it, I who could leave them all if I chose. Oh, curse my folly of five years ago, impulsive fool that I was; I could have got out of it easily too, if only they hadn't opposed me. If they'd made it easy, I don't think somehow I'd have persisted. Oh, damnation take it, here am I, with the best wife in the world, regretting. Apply? Not I. Oh, thank God, here she is. Lucy dear," throwing down the paper, and hurrying forward to meet the pale ghost who now entered, "it's good to see you down so early. Here's your chair, I've got the cushions and everything ready for you. There," settling her comfortably and tucking the shawl round her feet, "now tell me how you feel, better?"

"Much better, Hector dear, thanks to you and the way you cheer me up. I'm afraid I'm rather a burden to you now, and so very plain and unattractive. You can't call me pretty, as you used to."

"Nonsense, Lucy, you're prettier than ever, and far more attractive to me now, naturally."

"Oh no, I'm not, Hector. You only say that because, because ... you're the best husband in the world, so different from most men to their wives. But isn't that the Pioneer, any news of the war?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Lucy; the war, as you know, doesn't interest me."

"But surely it ought to, besides, there are so many we know fighting out there. Oh, Hector, how thankful I am you're not one of those who volunteered. It would have broken my heart had you done so."

Hector turned sharply away, and walking to the window remained for a moment staring out into the mist.

"Lucy," he said suddenly, "why did you always oppose my retiring? I could have done so before the war started, now I can't."

"Because I didn't want to spoil your life, Hector. I want you to command your regiment, not settle down yet; you're too young. It was for your sake I refused. I should have loved it myself."

"And at the same time you don't want me to see active service," said Hector, with a somewhat justifiable show of irritation. "Can't you see, Lucy, that not being in this war will certainly prove a bar to my own or anybody else's chance of future command?"

"But you have seen active service, Hector. Surely once is enough for any man, besides, you did so well then, everyone knows you ought to have got the V.C. Oh, by the way, I have meant to ask you for some time, do you know a—— Oh, bother, there's a caller, don't go. Hector, it's only Mrs. Swaine. How do you do, Mrs. Swaine?" to the lady who was ushered in by the bearer.

"So glad to find you in, Mrs. Graeme," said the new-comer. "I came round to ask whether you and your husband would care to come round to lunch to-day. Rather short notice, I'm afraid, but my nephew has just received orders for South Africa; he goes to-night, and I'm inviting a few friends to give him a send-off."

"Your nephew? oh, how dreadful for you, Mrs. Swaine, I'm so sorry."

"Oh, I don't know, after all, it's what soldiers are for, and Tom's really very fortunate to be selected. Everyone's applying nowadays, you know, and nearly all are refused. They only take the best men, and Tom, though he is my nephew, is very highly thought of at Headquarters."

"They'd like my husband to go, I know," said Lucy, up in arms at once, "he only has to apply."

"Oh, really? I didn't know they'd take married men. Sir Henry told me the other day they wouldn't. Anyway, I'm sure Captain Graeme wouldn't think of leaving you ... now," with an arch smile at the frowning Hector, "the thing's quite unthinkable. But about lunch, will you come?"

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Swaine, I should like to, but I'm afraid my husband——"

"Oh, I'll come," said Hector.

"Capital," said the lady. "Well, I must be off, I've got all sorts of things to see about. Good-bye, you two, so glad," and away trotted Mrs. Swaine, leaving silence behind her.

"Hector dear," said Lucy, after a pause, "you didn't mind what that woman said? She's a good soul really, only tactless."

"Not I," said Hector, "but you were saying something when she came in. You asked me if I knew——"

"Oh yes, General Quentin, such a curious person, Hector. They call him Golliwog here, and I should say he has about as much intelligence. Really, I don't think I ever met such a dull person in my life before."

"He's one of the few men I know, Lucy, whose opinion I respect. Also, he's the only fellow in the army from whom I ever learnt anything."

"Good gracious, Hector," said Lucy, surprised, for such commendation of a military superior was something very novel. "I didn't know you'd ever seen the man. Tell me about it."

"Oh, it was after that Mortlock affair, he spoke to me then, snubbed Schofield too—did it jolly well."

"That was nice of him, Hector, and of course I only saw him for a few minutes; he didn't even know my name. I'll tell you what we'll do, we'll invite him to dinner."

"Certainly not, Lucy," was the unexpected answer, "why, he's Adjutant-General."

"What does that matter? He'll come, and you must have somebody to talk to besides me, we'll ask him for to-morrow night; it's your birthday, you know, though I suppose you've forgotten that. Had you, Hector?"

"I had. I'm a fool about dates, as you know; but, Lucy, please don't ask Quentin."

"No, I won't please, I'm going to; you like him, and that's enough. Oh, look, Hector, the sun, a break in the rains at last. Now I'll write the note, and you shall take it; the ride will do you good, and you can meet me at the Swaines."

"Lucy, I'd much sooner stay here with you."

"No, I've got things to do, I must get on with my sewing, and I can't do that while you're here."

"Why not? I'm interested in that sewing. Oh, I do wish, Lucy, you'd let me know a little more about—about the infant. I really want to, and you never will talk about it."

"Of course not, such things are not for a man to know about. I intend to keep everything of that sort from you, dear. When he or she comes it will be different, but till then you mustn't ask questions."

"But, Lucy, can't you understand——?" began Hector.

"Perfectly, and it's sweet of you to be interested, or rather appear to be, for of course you're not really; no man could be in such details, and a woman would be a fool to expect it. Now go, like a good boy, and order the pony while I write the note."

She turned away and sat down at her writing-desk, leaving Hector standing looking at her, with a baffled expression on his face. For a moment he remained irresolute, then walked slowly away to order the pony, and presently returned to Lucy.

"Here's the letter, Hector," handing it to him. "You'd better go to the Military Offices, you'll find him there now; and I wonder, would you mind getting me some ribbons at Lace's when you pass?"

"Yes, I'll do that for you gladly, Lucy, but not the other."

Lucy looked at him, and then suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

"Very well, Hector. It's only a little thing I ask of you, but of course if you won't; and I understand, you—you'd rather your friend didn't see me like this. I—I know I'm dull and plain, but—but——"

"Give me the note, Lucy," said Hector quietly. "I'll take it, and enter the Military Offices for the first time since I've been here." He went out, and, mounting the pony, departed on his mission.

* * * * *

As Lucy had said, there was a break in the rains, and for a while the dense canopy of cloud burst asunder, and lay in sullen banked-up masses girdling the horizon. A blue sky glared overhead, from which shone a bright sun, its rays burning down on dripping tree and sodden ground, forcing from the latter a thick steam, odorous of damp earth, reeking fern, and rotting leaves.

The sound of running water filled the air, from the faint murmur of tiny rills, threading their way through emerald moss and tangled undergrowth, to the roar of swollen torrents thundering down the hillside on their way to parent streams below, faint gleams of silver appearing at intervals through the luxuriant vegetation clothing the valley depths. Beyond gleamed the mountains, no longer parched and bare as three weeks before, but clad in velvet green, veined with silver threads glittering in the sunlight, as they too danced on their way to the river below.

Graeme noticed none of these things, for the depression of the morning had now deepened to heavy gloom, and with it had come a sense of foreboding, the feeling of being driven on by destiny, which, struggle as he might, he was powerless to resist.

Two or three times, in obedience to a faint far-off and in some way strangely reproachful voice, he reined in his pony and paused, the inclination to return strong upon him, but then, cursing himself for an irresolute fool, he rode on. As he passed through the Mall, crowded with folk, who, like butterflies, had emerged from seclusion to desport themselves in the welcome sunshine, the feeling of foreboding grew, till, on reaching the Military Offices, so loud had the voice become that he then and there determined to obey it and return. Arriving at this decision, he experienced a sense of great relief; the cloud of gloom lifted from his mind, and, feeling strangely light-hearted, he was turning his horse about, when the animal suddenly stumbled, recovered himself, and then went on; but he was dead lame. "Picked up a stone," muttered his rider, and, dismounting, was proceeding to extract a sharp, three-cornered flint wedged between the frog and shoe, when a voice hailed him.

"Good morning, Graeme, what are you doing here?"

"Nothing," answered Hector, "a ride, that's all. Just going back. Curse this stone."

Captain Pushful, for that person it was, winked solemnly.

"'Nothing,'" he said, "'only a ride,' just so, that's what I'm here for, that's what we all come to the Offices for; it's no use, though, Golliwog won't see you, none of 'em will. I ought to know, for I've tried most of 'em. Going to have a go at his Excellency, though, this afternoon; we'll see what that will do. Another choking off, I suppose, but no matter."

"What on earth for?"

"Same old thing, to get out to South Africa. I'll do it yet, though, in spite of 'em all."—It may here be remarked that Captain Pushful was eventually sent out; De Boudoir, indeed, offered to pay his passage to get rid of him—"But surely you're not having a shot? It's no earthly use for you, believe me, you're married. He won't see you, I tell you," as, the stone extracted, Hector moved away.

"He certainly would, if I wanted him to," said Graeme, stopping; "but, as it happens, I don't."

"I'll bet you he doesn't."

"Oh, all right then, we'll see," and Hector, tying up his pony to the rails, mounted the steps leading to the Offices.

"Which way?" he asked; "d'you know?"

"Do I know," answered Pushful, with some scorn, "couldn't I draw a plan of the whole rotten place by now? You come with me; I'll have another try too. I'll ask him if he's got my application."

"Hang it, we can't both go."

"Oh yes, we can," and, regardless of Graeme's protests, Pushful led the way to the door of De Boudoir's room, and, without knocking, entered.

"Can I see——" began both simultaneously.

"No, you can't. Oh Lord, it's you again," said De Boudoir wrathfully, seeing Pushful, who had thrust himself ahead of Graeme. "By the Poker, but I'll have you out of this double quick," and, springing up, he seized Pushful, who was stealing past to the Adjutant-General's door, by the collar, and after a short but sharp struggle succeeded in putting him outside.

"And now for you," he began, turning to the other visitant. "It's no use, I tell you beforehand; the Chief won't see anyone. Oh, it's you, Graeme; I beg your pardon. I was just writing a note to you, asking you to come round. The General wants to see you. That door; go in quietly; he's a bit upset this morning."

Upon which Graeme knocked, and a testy "Come in" answering him, entered.

CHAPTER IX

"Well, what is it now," said Quentin, not looking up from his papers as Graeme entered, "and what the devil's all that row about? Damn it, De Boudoir, if you want to play 'Box and Cox,' you must find another.... Oh, good morning, Graeme; I didn't see it was you. Glad to meet you again. How are you?"

"All right, thank you, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you; I only came to——"

"Yes, yes, I know; I sent for you. Wait a minute, will you, till I've finished this letter, I've something to say to you. Sit down; smoke if you like; there are cigarettes."

Graeme took one from the box pushed towards him, and lighting it sat back in his chair and waited till the other had finished. What on earth, he wondered, could the Adjutant-General have to say to him? Surely it didn't mean that Colonel Schofield had already submitted his application for leave home, and it had arrived at Headquarters, only to be refused? Yes, that must be it, and Quentin had now sent for him to inform him of the fact. At the thought, Graeme was seized with anger, and he braced himself for fight. He wouldn't stand it, not he; he would speak his mind, and tell this Jack-in-office, Adjutant-General though he was, that he had made up his mind ...

Suddenly he became aware that the scratching of the pen had ceased, and that Quentin was regarding him with the same unwinking stare with which he had favoured him three years before at Fort Hussein.

"Have you ever met a Colonel Bradford, Graeme," he asked abruptly, "now commanding at Gurrumbad?"

"I think I have, sir; he dined with the regiment last manoeuvres," answered Graeme, his anger giving way to surprise at the unexpectedness of the question. What was the man driving at, he wondered.

"Does he know you?" was the next and equally abrupt query.

"I don't think so, sir, by sight possibly, but that's all."

"Hum ... pity."

A pause, then Quentin went on.

"He's one of the rising men, Graeme, one of the cleverest they ever had at the Staff College, they tell me; did well, too at last cold weather manoeuvres."

"Indeed, sir," muttered Graeme, his perplexity increasing.

"They've just given him the command of a brigade in South Africa, and he has written to me asking if I know of a"—a pause—"a suitable A.D.C."

Enlightenment at last, and with it the blood rushed to Hector's face. His forehead grew wet, and the room reeled before him. Far off he heard Quentin's voice continuing:

"It's a great chance, Graeme, for any soldier, and after consideration I've determined to offer the post to you."

"But, but ... sir, I'd give my soul to go, but——"

"You're thinking about the recommendation, I suppose, from your Colonel. He won't give it; is that what you mean?"

"No, he would not, sir," said Graeme, snatching at a straw.

"Hum, that's a pity, a very great pity. A Colonel's word, you know, Graeme, goes for a lot in these matters. Still, this is a purely personal appointment, and if I choose to take the risk of recommending you in spite of unfavourable reports, well, that's my lookout. And I'm prepared to take it, Graeme."

Silence.

"I'm prepared to take it, Captain Graeme," repeated Quentin, his eyes now like lamps. "What's the matter, aren't you well?"

"Yes, sir, only—only rather taken by surprise, sir."

"I hope you'll do me credit, Graeme."

"I—I'll try, sir. Thank you."

"I'm sure you will, and now I must ask you to leave me, I've got a good three hours' work here," laying his hand on the papers before him. "I'll wire to Bradford at once, and let you know his answer this afternoon; but I think I can tell you beforehand it will be all right. You'd better go home now and pack. Good-day."

"Good-day, sir," and Graeme stumbled out of the office and along the stone-flagged passage leading from it, till he found himself once more at the steps, on the top of which was seated Pushful, pensively smoking a pipe.

On seeing Hector he sprang up, with inquiry in his eye, but the other passed by unheeding. Declining an offer of his company in a manner that even Pushful recognised as final, he unhitched his pony from the rails, and rode off—Lucy, ribbons, and the Swaines' luncheon party completely forgotten. Arrived at home, he entered the house, and deaf to the bearer's offers of lunch went off to his room, where, locking the door, he flung himself down on the bed and tried to grasp the reality of what had happened. "I am going out to South Africa; to-morrow at this time I shall be gone," he repeated to himself for the hundredth time. But in vain—the words conveyed no meaning, and his thoughts wandered off into a confused labyrinth of trivial matters.

Finally, in desperation, he sprang up and hurried out to the garden, where for a time he walked up and down the sodden paths, and then gradually realisation came, and with it an intense feeling of remorse and unavailing regret. Oh, cursed unstable fool that he'd been, thus to allow himself to be driven into the very thing he had vowed to avoid. Where was his boasted strength, where the resolutions of the last three years? Gone, all gone. At a word from a stranger, he had betrayed the only being who loved him. From a weak-minded inability to refuse, he had accepted a thing for which he had not only no wish, but actual loathing, and brought misery on one whose only thought and wish were for his happiness. To leave her now, alone here amongst strangers, to get home as best she might, oh God! And, thoughts crowding thick upon Hector, he clenched his hands and cursed.

Then suddenly through the darkness shone a gleam, one of those that always come when the hour is blackest: the hope of the coup that haunts the ruined gambler; the dream of reprieve to the criminal on his way to the scaffold—false, always false, mere Will-o'-the-wisps, but clung to and believed in always. Perhaps he might not be sent after all, Quentin must have seen his disinclination, he had thought his manner cold when he said good-bye. No, he would choose someone else, someone who wanted to go, like that fool who was sitting on the Office steps—not him. Why, two hours had already elapsed since he left; if a wire had been coming it would have been here by this time, and Lucy ought to be back by now from the Swaines—good heavens, he had forgotten all about the luncheon party. Never mind, he would make it up to her, he would show her a devotion that would surprise even her, would make her so happy, and this time there should be no mistake. He had had his last lesson, and, once home, in would go his papers and ...

"Chitthi sahib, Faujdari dufta say aya,"[#] said a voice at his elbow, and looking round he saw his bearer holding out a salver on which lay a letter.

[#] "Letter from the Military Offices, sir."

"Jao,[#]" said Graeme, and snatching up the document strode away with it, the man looking curiously after him.

[#] Go.

At the far end of the garden he stopped and looked at the envelope, with dread in his heart; then, suddenly clenching his teeth, tore it open, and seizing the paper within, read at a glance:

"DEAR GRAEME,

"It's all right. Colonel Bradford agrees. Report yourself to him at Gurnimbad to-morrow night. You needn't wait for official orders. Good luck.

"Yours,

"C. QUENTIN."

As he stood staring at the words, the sound of rickshaw wheels was heard coming along the road towards the house. It was Lucy returning from the Swaines'. For a moment he remained listening. Then, crushing the letter into his pocket, he ran towards the house, gaining its sanctuary just as the rickshaw men trotted briskly up the drive.

"Where is the sahib," he heard from where he stood hovering within, "and what has he had for lunch?" much outspoken indignation greeting the bearer's answer that the master had not deigned to eat the meal provided.

"Of course he'd eat, it's your fault and the cook's if he didn't. Hector, where are you? Oh, there you are, why didn't you come out to meet me as you always do? Oh, Hector, I'm so sorry about your lunch, those stupid servants; and there was a guinea-fowl and the ham and——"

"It—it wasn't their fault, Lucy. They had the—the things ready, but I refused; I didn't feel like eating."

"Hector, you're ill; your voice is different somehow; come into the light, dear, and let me see," but Hector hung back.

"I'm all right, Lucy," he said hurriedly. "I've got rather a fit of the blues, that's all."

"And no wonder, being without food all this time. We'll have tea at once. Abdul, bring tea and two eggs for the sahib. And now sit down, and I'll tell you about the Swaines. Oh, Hector, why didn't you come? I was so disappointed."

"I—I was rather late getting back, Lucy. I—I—who was there?"

"Lots of people, and we'd such fun, not a bit like a farewell party. Captain Dance was there, you know, the man who does the comic parts at the theatre. And he was really most amusing, quite cheered me up, and—and oh, Hector, dear, he's given us a box for the theatre to-morrow night; you will come just for once, won't you? He's got a new song about Kruger, and I believe it's too funny. Oh, heavens, though, I forgot, General Quentin, don't say he's coming, please, Hector."

"He's—he's not, Lucy; he's rather busy just now, and——"

"Thank goodness, I should have been so disappointed, and we'll have a nice little dinner here together, just you and I, and go on to the play afterwards. Oh dear, I feel quite excited about it, I hope you do too, Hector."

"Lucy, my dearest."

"And Omar shall have a blue ribbon. Oh bother——"

"Omar?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to tell you, dear, not till to-morrow; but I've got a cat for you, my birthday present, Hector. He's a Persian, that's why I call him Omar, not very brilliant I fear, but I'm not clever, as you know only too well."

"Clever, you're the dearest——"

"But not clever, Hector, don't say so, because I know. Oh, I'd love to be clever like you."

"Me? Good heavens!"

"Yes, but about Omar. I know how you missed poor Fop, and I've meant to get you another in his place for a long time, but couldn't find one good enough. He's white, Hector, and rather nice, come along now and inspect him."

"Lucy, wait. I—I've something to tell you, something terrible, dear, has happened, and—and—oh, my God, how can I say it?"

"Hector, what do you mean?" the smile dying away.

"I ... they ... I'm ordered to South Africa, Lucy."

For a moment she stood staring at him, with no comprehension in her eyes.

"South Africa," she repeated; "you—are going to—South Africa," and then suddenly she rushed forward and flung herself on her knees before him. "Hector, Hector," she said wildly, "it's not true, tell me it isn't. You can't leave me, you can't, do you hear?" She tried to drag his hands from his face, but in vain. Then her mood changed, and she rose and stood before him, her eyes blazing in her white face.

"So—so you've volunteered like the rest, you whom I called only this morning 'the best husband in the world.' You'll go off and leave me as I am, helpless and alone, oh, what are men made of to do these things?"

"Lucy, I did not volunteer. I was weak, criminally weak, if you like, but that I did not do; the thing was forced upon me. Will you listen?"

"Go on."

Hector told her, and, as is usual with such recitals, suppressed the evidences of his own weakness, insisting on the fact that, as Quentin had put the matter, he had no choice but to accept, that it had been less an offer than an order. He didn't want to go, he repeated again and again, he never had had any wish to go, and let Lucy but say the word, he would wire to Bradford this minute to refuse. He would say he was ill, he would be ill, there was stuff in his medicine-chest upstairs. And then he stopped bewildered, for Lucy was smiling at him, a smile oddly in contrast with her white face and despairing eyes.

"No, Hector," she said, "you mustn't do that; you must go, dear."

"I won't, Lucy, what do I care for what they say?"

"But I do, dear; and—and, Hector, I was wrong in what I said just now, but I thought it was your own doing, and that you had volunteered. It was that which hurt me, dear, and made me say what I did; and—and I know you despise Mrs. Swaine and those other people, but they taught me a lesson this afternoon. She felt her nephew's going—I know that, because I found her crying afterwards in her room—but she never showed it to him. She was all smiles before him and the others, as I shall be when—when the time comes, Hector. When is it, dear?"

"To-morrow morning, but——"

"To-morrow? Then—then we've very little time; I must go and see to your things; and we'll keep your birthday to-night, dear, instead of ... and Omar shall have his blue ribbon."

"Lucy, for God's sake listen to me before we decide. I have a feeling about this. I know somehow I ought not to go, that if I do, it will be an irrevocable step. Oh, I can't explain, but—but I feel that—that this is my last chance. Something is dragging me, Lucy, I am being driven, God knows where! I have felt it before, I felt it only this morning on my way to those cursed Offices, and I know too that you and the baby alone can save me. Oh, Lucy, if you love me, tell me to stay."

"It's because I love you, Hector, that I now ask you to go. It's everything to me your wanting to remain; but, dearest, I cannot let you—I should be wickedly selfish if I did; and what you say about that feeling is wrong too, dear; it is morbid and unhealthy. Fight it down, Hector; it is nothing, and—and soon you will come back to me, and there will be the baby, and we—we shall be so happy, and we couldn't be if we were to shirk our duty when it's come. But I must leave you now, no, you stay here, dear; you—you would only hinder me," and she went.

* * * * *

Next morning, with the rain pouring down upon him, Hector rode away, and, as he reached the gate opening on to the main road, he stopped and looked back at the still figure watching him from the dripping verandah. For a moment he stood fighting the strange, wild impulse to return, and then, mastering it once and for ever, galloped away through the downpour.

BOOK II

CHAPTER X

Many thousands of miles away from high-perched fir-clad Chillata—now no longer rain-drenched and sad, but a white fairy-land of glistening ice and snow—a large column of mounted men was slowly toiling its way through a waste of rocky mountains. A weary-looking column it was, the men silent and sullen-faced; the animals dull-eyed, with their ribs showing through tightly-stretched coats. On they crawled, mile after mile, now breasting the side of some stony mountain, now sinking into the airless depths of gloomy gorge or desolate valley. Lower and lower dropped the sun, and then, with one last blinding flash of light, was gone, leaving the western sky aflame with specks of burning cloud.

Rapidly the light began to fade, a veil of hazy blue blurred the mountains, a few stars twinkled feebly overhead; and then at last came the welcome order to halt. The men clambered wearily down, and led the horses away to where a staff officer was standing, looking dubiously down at a few pools of muddy water, the remains of a sometime rushing torrent. Directing and objurgating the sullen men, he remained till the last beast had drunk and gone; and then he too turned away in search of such cheer as he might hope to find in the Headquarter Mess.

For weeks past the present day's work had been but a repetition of its predecessor: the rise before the dawn; the eventless trek through veldt and mountain; the bivouac in some hot valley, where alone water could be hoped for; the dreamless sleep, hard upon the unappetising meal; and then once more the awakening and profitless resumption of the march. For profitless it seemed, this pursuit of the elusive Dutchman, Van der Tann, rebel and murderer, whose capture many had attempted, but all, so far, failed to achieve.

Six weeks before, full of hope and confidence in their leader, despite the gloomy prophecies of those who had attempted the task before, this column had started on its quest, and so far not one man of the hostile commando had they seen; apparently at its ease, it kept just one march ahead, which distance, strive as he might, Colonel Bradford found himself powerless to lessen.

Gradually, in the column, hope had died out, and with its death came the longing for the comforts of civilisation: hot baths, whiskey and cigarettes for the officers, beer and tobacco for the men—luxuries that for the past three weeks they had been without. The former grew slack and dispirited; the latter sullen, in the last few days, indeed, almost openly mutinous, a state of things of which their leader was only too well aware, and which in his heart, secretly as hopeless as theirs, he knew himself powerless to combat. He was thinking of these things, and even meditating the abandonment of his quest, as he sat on the hillside overlooking the bivouac, and gloomily noted the air of unwillingness pervading the men below.

Surely it was justifiable to give up now, he thought; he had done all that a man could, but the task set was beyond him or anyone else; better to accept the inevitable and go back. He was but wearing out men and horses in a vain quest, and to force the march on was to risk the catastrophe of mutiny and consequent ruin of his career. His authority, he knew well, only hung by a hair, and the mere writing out of orders for the next day had become a torment, so fearful was he of a flat refusal to obey; only, last night their issue had been received with "booing"—a sound that had filled him with nervous dread. Despite his present despondency, Colonel Bradford's reputation was that of a good and able commander; and since landing in the country five months before his career had been one of unbroken success. Cool in action, ready of resource, and deeply read in military lore, he had, as a brigade commander in the main body, won high opinions from superiors and subordinates alike, and it had been in the full hope of a successful issue that to him had been entrusted the capture of the notorious and hitherto undefeated Van der Tann.

Unsuspected by all, however, in Bradford's character there was a weak spot, which events so far had failed to discover, and that was the inability to hold on his way, unmoved by the opinions of those around him. Give him a willing army to lead and all was well, but, let the men become discouraged and show hostility to authority, he also, only too soon, came to share the one feeling and fear the other. The double task of overcoming them as well as the enemy was beyond him—as it is to all save the Marlboroughs and Wellingtons of history—and in the present crisis, instead of rooting up the sprouting weeds of insubordination, his sole desire, and that the most fatal of all, was to conciliate the malcontents, with the inevitable result that the murmuring grew daily louder.

There was one, and, probably the only one in the column, who was not only unaffected by the general depression, but rather stimulated by it, and that was Captain Hector Graeme. So far, in his novel rôle of A.D.C., he had failed to justify his selection for the post by General Quentin; indeed, Bradford had many times thought hard things of the Adjutant-General to the Indian Forces, for providing him with a staff officer so negligent and ignorant of his work.

On more than one occasion he had had just reason for complaint, Hector's arrangements as to messing and the transport of his chief's baggage having only too often proved defective, while his cavalier treatment of senior officers had brought more than one rebuke on his careless head. His sartorial eccentricities, too, were a source of constant irritation to Colonel Bradford, for now that he was no longer a regimental officer he had given free rein to his taste for original garments; and, bizarre as were many of the uniforms worn at that time in South Africa, Hector, in unconventionality and strangeness of attire, eclipsed them all.

Several times Bradford, stung by the remarks of distinguished visitors to his Mess, had debated the advisability of sending Graeme about his business, or at any rate palming him off on some unwary new-comer, but somehow he had never done so; and in the last fortnight had come to be glad of his forbearance. For during that time a surprising change had come over his A.D.C. In proportion as the spirits of the rest went down, his went up, and no matter how long or profitless the day Hector never seemed tired or depressed, but, on the contrary, cheerful and full of fight. And gradually Bradford, harassed by doubts and the unresponsiveness of his followers, began to turn to his erstwhile obnoxious A.D.C., whose confidence in ultimate success seemed to increase daily, and who alone amongst his fellows appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the present expedition.

He looked at him now as he lay on his back close by, calm and content, the end of a "Pinhead" cigarette—given him a the rate of one daily by his servant from the latter's scanty store—between his teeth, and, as he looked, he sighed. He wished that he too could feel like that. Hector heard the sigh, and, instantly opening his eyes, sat up and gazed meditatively at the mob of men and horses below.

"Hard as nails, those horses," he observed cheerfully, "do their thirty miles a day easy now; never so fit in their lives before."

"I don't know what you call fit, Graeme," was the moody answer, "they're all skin and bone. Worn out, that's what they are; look at the way they're standing."

"Only healthily tired, they'll be bucking after a night's rest. The men seem a bit sullen though, the brutes. What the dickens do they want, I wonder? Fine weather, grand country, and quite enough to eat. Damn it, they've not fed those mules yet. I'll soon see about that," rising as he spoke.

"Better leave the men alone, Graeme; poor devils, they're tired too. For heaven's sake don't hustle them, they'll only lose their temper and answer back."

"Lose their temper, will they? So will I, then, and I'll warrant mine's worse than theirs."

"There's a time, Graeme, you know, when it's better to shut one's eyes—the velvet glove, you know;" but Hector had gone, and was now making his way to where a group of men were sitting in a circle, at some distance from the famished mules.

"Velvet glove be hanged," he muttered as he went; "that's all right when the steel hand's inside, not the flabby digits your gloves contain. Damn, you may be a devilish fine tactician or strategist, but you don't understand men. I do, and always have," and he strode on, the light of battle in his eyes.

Sick with nervous apprehension, Bradford watched him approach the group, and, as he reached it, say something to one of its members. The man, turning his head, looked up without rising, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders, was resuming his conversation when Hector rushed at him, seized him by the collar, and dragged him to his feet. The others jumped up and gazed in astonishment at the intruder; a murmur of anger arose, but was almost instantaneously silenced, quelled by a fury such as staggered their dull souls. For a few minutes the winged words flew, and then Bradford saw Hector wheel round on the first man and point to the mules. Slowly the fellow was slouching off, when for the second time Graeme was on him, and, whirling him round, again spoke, when the man's hand went to his cap in a salute, and he stood stiffly at attention. Another order was given, on which the rest ranged themselves into line, were numbered off by fours—the proving being repeated three times before the requisite smartness was attained—and the men were marched briskly away to the waiting mules, which they proceeded to feed, Hector supervising. This operation completed, he rejoined his chief.

"Bit and spur, not sugar, for a tired horse," he observed, resuming his seat on the ground. "It's not the men's fault, though; they'd be all right if properly managed."

"What did you say to them, Graeme? It seems to have been pretty effective, whatever it was."

"Cursed them well, sir, called them every name I could lay my tongue to. That big fellow I promised to shoot if he spoke again. I'd have done it too, devilish near thing as it was."

"What?"

"Certainly I would, it was him or me. Obedience I meant having, and if he wasn't going to give it, he'd have got hurt, that's all."

"This is not the German Army, Graeme."

"No, if it were we shouldn't keep the useless devils we do in command. Old Carthew, for instance; I wish you'd let me have a go at him, sir."

"Kindly remember, Graeme, you're speaking of a senior officer."

"Well, if I am, sir, I'm only saying what every one in the column knows. Why, last night at dinner, before his officers, he said that our present expedition was hopeless, and that he had reason to believe you thought so too."

Bradford was silent.

"Of course, he ought not to have said that, Graeme," he answered after a pause, "but I'm afraid he's only expressing the general feeling."

"What does that matter, sir, if it's not yours?"

"But ... perhaps it is mine, Graeme; it's certainly that of my staff officer, Major Godwin."

"Godwin? An old woman."

"Graeme!"

"So he is, if he advises giving up; and it's all very well for him, he won't get the blame—you will. He'll probably say afterwards too, he was all for going on, but you wouldn't."

Again Bradford was silent. From what he knew of staff officers, he thought that this was more than likely to be true, and the idea was unpleasant. And then a fatal and ever-to-be-regretted moment of weakness came over him, and he turned to Graeme.

"What would you advise, then?" he said. "I don't mind owning I'm done."

"Try for a bit longer, anyway," was the instant response. "Look here, Colonel, I, as you know, am not much of a tactician, but this is not a question of tactics; it's a question of our will against Van der Tann's and my—ours is stronger than his; I know it."

"I don't follow you, Graeme," said Bradford, looking puzzled, for to him psychology was an unknown region.

"Simply this, we've been after this fellow now for six weeks and one of us must give, and that soon. The strain is too great to last. Our lot may be bad, but think what his must be, with us always hanging on to his heels, and never knowing when we're going to pounce on them. I know he goes as fast as we do, faster perhaps, but so does the rabbit than the stoat, yet the stoat gets him in the end, because the rabbit's nerve goes and he chucks it."

"Yes, but the rabbit can't turn round and fight the stoat. Van der Tann can; a nice plight we should be in if he were to attack us to-night. Regular cul-de-sac this place we're in."

"Not much attack left in men who've been pursued for six weeks; besides, they're probably thinking the same about us."

"Hum, can't say I think much of your argument, Graeme. Let's go and have tea. I suppose we've not run out of that, have we? Coming? No? Well, don't go beyond the sentry line, these Dutchmen are always prowling about;" and Bradford rose and walked slowly away, leaving Hector seated on the ground.

For a few minutes he remained there, and then, his Chief out of sight, sprang up, and, evading the none too alert sentries, made his way across country till he struck a rough sheep-track leading into the heart of the mountains. "I'll think this out," he muttered. "I'll get him on somehow, the faint-hearted fool, only another day or two, and we'll have this fellow Van der Tann. He's close by somewhere. I don't know why I think so, but I'm sure of it. I wish to heaven I was in charge; give me a day only, and you wouldn't know that column. I'd..." And here his thoughts wandered off, as Hector's were wont to do, into a picture of personal achievements.

He had just worked out the capture of the Dutchman, having seen every detail of the march and subsequent fight vividly before him, and was proceeding to give orders for the disposal of the prisoners, speaking—a habit to which he had of late become prone—half-aloud as he did so, when, striking his foot violently against a stone, the pain brought him straightway back to earth. With a sudden shock, he became aware of the darkness and deep silence around him, and hurriedly striking a match looked at his watch, which by good luck he had not forgotten to wind the previous night. It was close on eight, and at six he had started, which meant that he was now, at the pace he had come, well-nigh seven miles from the bivouac.

By this time dinner would be over, and a search-party probably out after him; he must get back at once, that is, if he could find his way, which he rather doubted, for he had been too deeply engrossed with mental visions to take much note of the road he had come by. He looked behind him, in the hope of seeing the bivouac lights, but in vain—a wall of mountains lay between. He turned off the track, and clambered up on to a peak of rock, thinking he could possibly see better from it.

For a few minutes he stood there, straining his eyes into the darkness, but no fires were visible, only the shadowy shapes of mountains on three sides, and on the fourth a black abyss, falling sheer from his feet. Suddenly he started, a thrill of excitement running through him, for far down below him a faint spark of light was visible; it flickered, disappeared, and then shone out once more.

In a flash, Hector's imagination had rent the veil of darkness. The light stood revealed as a camp-fire, its disappearance caused by the figures of passing Dutchmen, and a faint far-away sound from the depths the neighing of a horse. It—it was—it could only be—Van der Tann's bivouac. Quivering, he stood staring down, but all was black once more; the glimmer had gone, and the sound, whatever it was, had ceased.

Visionary as the glimpse of the light had been, it was enough for Hector. He had asked for a lever to move Bradford, and here was the handle thrust out for him to seize. He then and there determined to work it. After all, he was the sole witness, and what he said no one could dispute. It would force his Chief on, that was all that mattered; and if, afterwards, he should be proved wrong, and no commando was to be found, well, what of it? Bradford would possibly say hard things, might even dismiss him from his staff in disgrace, but that could not hurt him much.

He was obscure enough now, and were his Chief allowed to carry out his present intention of returning, a failure self-confessed, the cloud that, in the future, would assuredly overhang Bradford's name, would also serve to blot out altogether that of the failure's personal staff officer. No, this was his chance, the last he would have, and take it he would. His eyes shone, his jaw set, and, clambering down from the rock, he regained the sheep-track, and set off at a run for the bivouac.

* * * * *

"Where the dickens has the fellow got to, d'you think, Godwin?" said Bradford, laying down the battered-looking novel he was reading by the light of a camp-lantern.

Dinner was long since over in the Headquarter Mess, and the two were sitting there alone, the rest of the party having retired to bed.

"Goodness knows, sir," answered the other, a long-nosed individual with a high forehead, who was generally supposed to be the ugliest man in South Africa: "he's nowhere in camp, for I've sent all round to see. Must have got through the sentries and been captured, or shot, or something. That jacket of his would be rather a prize for a Dutch lady, make her a nice combing-jacket."

"I particularly ordered him to keep within the boundaries," said Bradford irritably. "Damn the fellow, he's been more trouble to me than the whole of the rest of the column. But never mind about him now; about those orders, you understand, that we remain here to-morrow to rest, and the next day start back?"

"You think it's no further use, sir?"

"None, I—— Hullo, who's this? Why it's—where the dickens have you been, Graeme? We've been hunting all over the bivouac for you, disobeying my orders again, I suppose, and——"

"I've found Van der Tann, Colonel," panted Graeme.

"What!"

"He's in a valley about seven miles away; his whole commando's there, I saw it."

"North, south, east, or west?" asked Godwin, his green eyes fixed on Hector's face.

"Oh, over there," pointing into the darkness.

"That's west," said the Chief of the Staff, "in which case we passed within a few miles of him to-day. Sure you saw him, Graeme?"

"Positive. I was quite close, crept down the mountain-side—almost a precipice it was, too—and got within a hundred yards of them; there were about five hundred, I should say."

"That coat of yours make you invisible, Graeme?" resumed Godwin, glancing at Bradford. "You must have gone through their sentries as you did ours. Van der Tann's commando, sir," to Bradford, "is, as you know, a thousand strong, at least."

"Major Godwin, do you mean that I'm a liar?"

"Oh, be quiet, Graeme," said Bradford wearily. "remember to whom you're talking. Do you mean seriously to tell me you have seen Van der Tann's commando?"

"I do."

"You're quite sure you weren't deceived by the darkness, didn't mistake cattle for horses, for instance? It's a thing anybody might do, you know."

"I'm quite sure, sir."

Bradford stared hard at him for a moment, and then looked towards his Chief of the Staff.

"What do you make of it, Godwin?" he said.

For a few seconds the long-nosed man made no answer; his green eyes were fixed upon Hector.