And this was the opinion of all.

The devoted Rajputs of Captain Markham's company never for a moment wavered in their allegiance. They fought and took their turn on guard, and fought again as staunchly as the white men, and many were the acts of heroism they displayed. Twice was the staff of the Union Jack, that still floated above the house, broken by missiles, and on each occasion some of the intrepid Hindus volunteered to splice the wood. In full sight of the enemy, who fired wildly at them, they achieved this, and again the silken folds waved freely in the breeze.

Again and again the mutineers advanced on every side, with great noise and waving of weapons. Again and again they approached more peaceably, shouting to the Hindus that they should come out and join their comrades, promising them gold and silver in abundance should they deliver the white men into their hands.

Each attack was met with steadfast courage; the noisy firing was answered by a steadier rattle of musketry, and the rebels dropped fast; unwavering fidelity rejected both bribes and friendly advances; and on more than one occasion a determined, vigorous sortie was the only reply vouchsafed by these gallant dark-faces.

Slowly and anxiously the day wore on. Care-worn faces wistfully regarded the threatening nine-pounders that would soon begin to pour destruction upon them. For a moment the attacks ceased as the rebels crowded round the guns that were placed upon an open eminence overlooking the house.

Fascinated by the sight, the whole garrison gathered before the windows, powerless to avert their gaze from the instruments of destruction.

But what means that sudden commotion--that loud shrill cheering? The mob is seen to part right and left, the rebel sepoys fling their caps in the air and wave their muskets excitedly as a body of fine, well-set-up men, fierce of aspect, turbaned, and clad in drab uniforms, marches into the courtyard of the fort. Though no word of command is given, the fresh arrivals there halt, fall out, and at once begin to fraternize with the mutineers. Behind the tall men appear a score of much smaller figures, clothed in the same uniform, and these shout and gesticulate more wildly than any.

"The Guides!" gasps Lieutenant Leigh.

"Traitors, by George!" thunders Major Munro, with intense and vehement bitterness. "Traitors!"

A long pause followed. The Britons gazed upon one another with blank, haggard faces. The whole Indian Empire was tumbling down, and none was loyal! Until this moment not a man amongst them but had known some ray of hope, however feeble.

"Are they truly the Guides?" asked one. "Who, then, are the little beggars?" pointing to the rearmost.

"Gurkhas of the Guide Corps," answered Leigh, no less bitterly. "And their officers have always maintained that Gurkhas can be trusted when all others fail. Well, we live and learn."

"Aye, we learn,--but not the other," was Munro's grim aside.

Momentarily forgetting their predicament, Ted stared with great interest at the short figures and Tartar laces that grinned in fiendish anticipation; for his father had often spoken in terms of the highest praise of these reputedly fearless Himalayan mountaineers, against whom he had fought, and whom he had afterwards led.

"Well, if those are Gurkhas, I don't think much of 'em," said the ensign, his critical spirit asserting itself even at this crisis. "Our seventy Rajputs could tackle a hundred of them."

As for Faiz Talab, his eyes seemed to be starting from his head.

"The pigs! the curs!" he gasped at length. "What can it mean?"

As the Yusufzai spoke he grasped an Enfield rifle, brought it to his shoulder, and fired at the mass of drab uniforms, then fell to cursing his comrades afresh for the shame they had brought upon their corps. The onlookers could distinguish their own disloyal men pointing out the British stronghold to the Guides, who seemed to be examining the situation with keen interest. The siege was temporarily raised, whilst a general confabulation took place among the rebel leaders.

"Faiz Talab, what have they done to my brother?" asked Ted.

The Yusufzai shook his head. "I know not," said he.

"Hadst thou no word or hint of this intended treachery?"

"Neither word nor hint, sahib. Surely I must be dreaming, for yesterday we were all loyal to the backbone, and we loved thy brother greatly. I do not understand it."

"Yesterday," interposed Lieutenant Leigh, "they had not heard of the mutiny and entry of the 138th. Perhaps that decided the rascals to throw over the British raj."

"It must indeed be so, yet it does not seem possible."

"Think you they have allowed the Captain Sahib to escape?" asked Alec Paterson, guessing that Ted could not bring himself to ask this question for fear of the reply.

"Nay, that could hardly be. If they have been so base as to prove untrue to the salt they have eaten, they would not hesitate to kill their officer."

"Though you pretend that they loved him?" Ted bitterly demanded.

"The better reason for slaying him. They would kill him first of all, because they loved and honoured him, so that he might never know their shame. Yet I cannot believe it. May my father's grave be defiled if I do not kill some of the traitors before I die!"

Ted walked to the window and gazed forth upon the distant hubbub.

Paterson followed, and laid his hand upon the shoulder of his chum.

"It will be worse for the poor lassie, I'm thinking, Ted," he said.

Our hero nodded, but could not trust himself to speak.

"We must keep the news from her as long as we can," Alec continued. "She is with her father now, and has not heard. The others will not tell her."

CHAPTER XI

In the Clutches of Pir Baksh

Three hours after Ensign Russell and Havildar Ambar Singh had entered the besieged house, a swarthy man in the uniform of a native officer picked himself tenderly up from the ground, and wondered to find himself still alive. It was Pir Baksh the subadar. For hours he had lain unconscious, deaf to the moans of the maimed and dying men who lay stretched on every side amid the chaos of shattered timber and masonry.

His right arm was broken, his head bleeding, and the fallen beam that had caused the fracture had lain all night across his body, bruising him sorely. He wriggled from underneath, and finding himself too weak to rise he called loudly for help.

But what was this thing so soft below him, that had served as a pillow for his head all night? He passed his hand lightly over the object. It was a corpse--no, the flesh was warm! He placed his hand on the mouth and nostrils, and found that there was still breath in the body. His hand passed higher up until he touched the hair, and Pir Baksh gave a start. It was one of the two accursed Feringhis to whom he owed the agony he was now enduring. He sought for a knife, a bayonet, to plunge again and again into the unconscious body.

But Pir Baksh changed his mind. No, he would wait until the Englishman could feel and taste the bitterness of death. Revenge would be as nothing unless the victim could feel pain as great as his own. He there and then resolved to save the life of his enemy until he could plan and carry out his vengeance, for Pir Baksh had less pity than a tiger.

Again and again he called for help in the name of Allah, and at length his cries were heard. A few sepoys of his company approached with great caution, for day had not yet come.

"Who is there?" they called.

"It is I, Pir Baksh. Water!--bring me water if ye are followers of the Prophet!"

The cry for water from one Mussulman to another cannot be neglected, and a sepoy ran for a water-skin, while the rest made their way to the injured officer.

"All my bones are broken, I think," said he. "Ye have been long in coming. Look! here is a Feringhi boy still alive. Nay, do not kill him; he shall die more slowly."

He drank the water feverishly.

"Now, carry us to my brother's house, and do not let all the people know that we have a prisoner, lest in their rage they should straightway kill him, for I mean to torture him by raising hopes. Bear me gently."

As they raised him the subadar fainted away. Tynan--for he, of course, was the Englishman--was still unconscious, and before the light that precedes the dawn had shown across the sky, the pair had been safely and secretly conveyed into the house of Muhammed Baksh on the outskirts of the town.

The sun had risen and was high in the heavens before Ensign Tynan recovered consciousness. He raised himself painfully in the creaking string bed, and gazed in a bewildered manner, like an owl in the sunshine, around the small unfurnished room in which he lay. The shutters were closed, darkening the chamber, and, unable to make out his surroundings, and too weary to attempt to solve the mystery, he sank down again with a smothered groan. His head was badly cut; he had lost a lot of blood; and, though no bones were broken, he had hardly a sound, unbruised spot on his body. The roar of the explosion was ringing in his ears, and he still shivered with fright.

For a long time he could not sleep, though, after what seemed to him an eternity of suffering, he at length fell into a fitful slumber, waking up between his nightmares in a cold perspiration of dread.