THE Alwa-sahib knew more English than he was willing to admit. In the first place, he had the perfectly natural dislike of committing his thoughts to any language other than his own when anything serious was the subject of discussion; in the second place, he had little of Mahommed Gunga's last-ditch loyalty. Not that Alwa could be disloyal; he had not got it in him; but as yet he had seen no good reason for pledging himself and his to the British cause.

So for more than ten minutes he chose to sit in apparent dudgeon, his hands folded in front of him on the hilt of his tremendous sabre, growling out a monologue in his own language for Mahommed Gunga's benefit. Then Mahommed Gunga silenced him with an uplifted hand, and turned to translate to Cunningham.

“It would seem, sahib, that even while we rode to Abu the rebellion was already raging! It burst suddenly. They have mutinied at Berhampur, and slain their officers. Likewise at Meerut, and at all the places in between. At Kohat, in this province they have slain every white man, woman, and child, and also at Arjpur and Sohlat. The rebels are hurrying to Delhi, where they have proclaimed new rule, under the descendants of the old-time kings. Word of all this came before dawn today, by a messenger from Maharajah Howrah to my cousin here. My cousin stands pledged to uphold Howrah on his throne; Howrah is against the British; Jaimihr, his brother, is in arms against Howrah.”

“Why did the Alwa-sahib pledge himself to Howrah's cause?”

Mahommed Gunga—who knew quite well—saw fit to translate the question. With a little sign of irritation Alwa growled his answer.

“He says, sahib, that for the safety of two Christian missionaries, for whom he has no esteem at all, he was forced to swear allegiance to a Hindoo whom he esteems even less. He says that his word is given!”

“Does he mean that he would like me and the missionaries to leave his home at once—do we embarrass him?”

Again Mahommed Gunga—this time with a grin—saw fit to ask before he answered.

“He says, 'God forbid,' sahib; 'a guest is guest!'”

Cunningham reflected for a moment, then leaned forward.

“Tell him this!” he said slowly. “I am glad to be his guest, but, if this story of rebellion is true—”

“It is true, sahib! More than true! There is much more to be told!”

“Then, I can only accept his hospitality as the representative of my government! I stay here officially, or not at all. It is for him to answer!”

“Now, Allah be praised!” swore Mahommed Gunga. “I knew we had a man! That is well said, sahib!”

“The son of Cunnigan-bahadur is welcome here on any terms at all!” growled Alwa when Mahommed Gunga had translated. “All the rebels in all India, all trying at once, would fail to take this fort of mine, had I a larger garrison. But what Rangar on this countryside will risk his life and estates on behalf of a cause that is already lost? If they come to hold my fort for me, the rebels will burn their houses. The British Raj is doomed. We Rangars have to play for our own stake!”

Then Mahommed Gunga rose and paced the floor like a man in armor, tugging at his beard and kicking at his scabbard each time that he turned at either end.

“What Rangar in this province would have had one yard of land to his name but for this man's father?” he demanded. “In his day we fought, all of us, for what was right! We threw our weight behind him when he led, letting everything except obedience go where the devil wanted it! What came of that? Good tithes, good report, good feeling, peace!”

“And then, the zemindary laws!” growled Alwa. “Then the laws that took away from us full two-thirds of our revenue!”

“We had had no revenue, except for Cunnigan-bahadur!”

It dawned on Cunningham exactly why and how he came to be there! He understood now that Mahommed Gunga had told nothing less than truth when he declared it had been through his scheming, and no other man's, that he—Cunningham—whose sole thought was to be a soldier, had been relegated to oblivion and politics! He understood why Byng had signed the transfer, and he knew—knew—knew—deep down inside him that his chance had come!

“It seems that another Cunningham is to have the honor of preserving Rangars' titles for them,” he smiled. “How many horsemen could the Alwa-sahib raise?”

“That would depend!” Alwa was in no mood to commit himself.

“At the most—at a pinch—in case of direst need, and for a cause that all agreed on?”

“Two thousand.”

“Horsed and armed?”

“And ready!”

“And you, Alwa-sahib—are you pledged to fight against the British?”

“Not in so many words. I swore to uphold Howrah on his throne. He is against the British.”

“You swore to help smash his brother, Jaimihr?”

“If I were needed.”

“And Jaimihr too is against the British?”

“Jaimihr is for Jaimihr, and has a personal affair with me!”

“I must think,” said Cunningham, getting up. “I can think better alone. D'you mind if I go outside for a while, and come back later to tell you what I think?”

Alwa arose and held the door open for him—stood and watched him cross the courtyard—then turned and laughed at Mahommed Gunga.

“Straight over to the woman!” he grinned. “This leader of thine seems in leading-strings himself already!”

Mahommed Gunga cursed, and cursed again as his own eyes confirmed what Alwa said.

“I tried him all the ways there are, except that one way!” he declared. “May Allah forgive my oversight! I should have got him well entangled with a woman before he reached Peshawur! He should have been heart-broken by this time—rightly, he should have been desperate with unrequited love! Byng-bahadur could have managed it! Byng-bahadur would have managed it, had I thought to advise him!”

He stood, looking over very gloomily at Cunningham, making a dozen wild plans for getting rid of Miss McClean—by no means forgetting poison—and the height of Alwa's aerie from the plain below! He would have been considerably calmer, could he have heard what Cunningham and Miss McClean were saying.

The missionary was with her now—ill and exhausted from the combined effects of excitement, horror, and the unaccustomed ride across the desert—most anxious for his daughter—worried, to the verge of desperation, by the ghastly news of the rebellion.

“Mr. Cunningham, I hope you are the forerunner of a British force?” he hazarded.

But Cunningham was too intent on cross-examination to waste time on giving any information.

“I want you to tell me, quite quietly and without hurry, all you can about Howrah,” he said, sitting close to Miss McClean. “I want you to understand that I am the sole representative of my government in the whole district, and that whatever can be done depends very largely on what information I can get. I have been talking to the Alwa-sahib, but he seems too obsessed with his own predicament to be able to make things quite clear. Now, go ahead and tell me what you know about conditions in the city. Remember, you are under orders! Try and consider yourself a scout, reporting information to your officer. Tell me every single thing, however unimportant.”

On the far side of the courtyard Alwa and Mahommed Gunga had gone to lean over the parapet and watch something that seemed to interest both of them intently. There were twenty or more men, lined round the ramparts on the lookout, and they all too seemed spellbound, but Cunningham was too engrossed in Miss McClean's story of the happenings in Howrah City to take notice. Now and then her father would help her out with an interjected comment; occasionally Cunningham would stop her with a question, or would ask her to repeat some item; but, for more than an hour she spun a clear-strung narrative that left very little to imagination and included practically all there was to know.

“Do you think,” asked Cunningham “that this brute Jaimihr really wants to make you Maharanee?”

“I couldn't say,” she shuddered. “You know, there have been several instances of European women having practically sold themselves to native princes; there have been stories—I have heard them—of English women marrying Rajahs, and regretting it. There is no reason why he should not be in earnest, and he certainly seemed to be.”

“And this treasure? Of course, I have heard tales about it, but I thought they were just tales.”

“That treasure is really there, and its amount must be fabulous. I have been told that there are jewels there which would bring a Rajah's ransom, and gold enough to offset the taxes of the whole of India for a year or two. I've no doubt the stories are exaggerated, but the treasure is real enough, and big enough to make the throne worth fighting for. Jaimihr counts on being able to break the power of the priests and broach the treasure.”

“And Jaimihr is—er—in love with you!”

“He tried very hard to prove it, in his own objectionable way!”

“And Jaimihr wants the throne—and Howrah wants to send a force against the British, but dare not move because of Jaimihr—I have Mahommed Gunga and five or six men to depend on—the Rangars are sitting on the fence—and the government has its hands full! The lookout's bright! I think I see the way through!”

“You are forgetting me.” The missionary spread his broad stooped shoulders. “I am a missionary first, but next to that I have my country's cause more at heart than anything. I place myself under your orders, Mr. Cunningham.”

“I too,” said Miss McClean. She was looking at him keenly as he gazed away into nothing through slightly narrowed eyes. Vaguely, his attitude reminded her of a picture she had once seen of the Duke of Wellington; there was the same mastery, the same far vision, the same poise of self-contained power. His nose was not like the Iron Duke's, for young Cunningham's had rather more tolerance in its outline and less of Roman overbearing; but the eyes, and the mouth, and the angle of the jaw were so like Wellesley's as to force a smile. “A woman isn't likely to be much use in a case like this—but, one never knows. My country comes first.”

“Thanks,” he answered quietly. And as he turned his head to flash one glance at each of them, she recognized what Mahommed Gunga had gloated over from the first—the grim decision, that will sacrifice all—take full responsibility—and use all means available for the one unflinching purpose of the game in hand. She knew that minute, and her father knew, that if she could be used—in any way at all—he would make use of her.

“Go ahead!” she nodded. “I'll obey!”

“And I will not prevent!” said Duncan McClean, smiling and straightening his spectacles.

Cunningham left them and walked over to the parapet, where the whole garrison was bending excitedly now above the battlement. There were more than forty men, most of them clustered near Alwa and Mahommed Gunga. Mahommed Gunga was busy counting.

“Eight hundred!” he exclaimed, as Cunningham drew near.

“Eight hundred what, Mahommed Gunga? Come and see, sahib.”

Cunningham leaned over, and beheld a mounted column, trailing along the desert road in wonderfully good formation.

“Where are they from?” he asked.

“Jaimihr's men, from Howrah!”

“That means,” growled Alwa, “that the Hindoo pig Jaimihr has more than half the city at his back. He has left behind ten men for every one he brings with him—sufficient to hold Howrah in check. Otherwise he would never have dared come here. He hopes to settle his little private quarrel with me first, before dealing with his brother! Who told him, I wonder, that I was pledged to Howrah?”

“He reckons he has caught thee napping in this fort of thine!” laughed Mahommed Gunga. “He means to bottle up the Rangars' leader, and so checkmate all of them!”

The eight hundred horsemen on the plain below rode carelessly through Alwa's gardens, leaving trampled confusion in their wake, and lined up—with Jaimihr at their head—immediately before the great iron gate. A moment later four men rode closer and hammered on it with their lance-ends.

“Go down and speak to them!” commanded Alwa, and a man dropped down the zigzag roadway like a goat, taking short cuts from level to level, until he stood on a pinnacle of rock that overhung the gate. Ten minutes later he returned, breathing hard with the effort of his climb.

“Jaimihr demands the missionaries—particularly the Miss-sahib—also quarters and food!” he reported.

“Quarters and food he shall have!” swore Alwa, looking down at the Prince who sat his charger in the centre of the roadway. “Did he deign a threat?”

“He said that in fifteen minutes he will burst the gate in, unless he is first admitted!”

Duncan McClean walked over, limping painfully, and peered over the precipice.

“Unfriendly?” he asked, and Mahommed Gunga heard him.

“Thy friend Jaimihr, sahib! His teeth are all but visible from here!”

“And—?”

“He demands admittance—also thee and thy daughter!”

“And—?”

“Sahib—art thou a priest?”

“I am.”

“One, then, who prays?”

“Yes.”

“For dead men, ever? For the dying?”

“Certainly.”

“Aloud?”

“On occasion, yes.”

“Then pray now! There will be many dead and dying on the plain below in less than fifteen minutes! Hindoos, for all I know, would benefit by prayer. They have too many gods, and their gods are too busy fighting for ascendancy to listen. Pray thou, a little!”

There came a long shout from the plain, and Alwa sent a man again to listen. He came back with a message that Jaimihr granted amnesty to all who would surrender, and that he would be pleased to accept Alwa's allegiance if offered to him.

“I will offer the braggart something in the way of board and lodging that will astonish him!” growled Alwa. “Eight men to horse! The first eight! That will do! Back to the battlement, the rest of you!”

They had raced for the right to loose themselves against eight hundred!