JAIDEV SINGH was a five-K man, with the hair, breeches, bangle, comb, and dagger that betoken him who has sworn the vow of Khanda ka Pahul. Every item of the Sikh ritual was devised with no other motive than to preserve the fighting character of the organization. The very name Singh means lion. The Sikh's long hair with the iron ring hidden underneath is meant as a protection against sword-cuts. And because their faith is rather spiritual than fanatical—based rather on the cause of things than on material effect—men of that creed take first rank among fighting men.

Jaidev Singh arrived soon after the moon had risen. The notice of his coming was the steady drumming footfall of his horse, that slowed occasionally, and responded to the spur again immediately.

Close to the big iron gate below Alwa's eyrie there were some of Jaimihr's cavalry nosing about among the trampled gardens for the dead and wounded they had left there earlier in the afternoon. They ceased searching, and formed up to intercept whoever it might be who rode in such a hurry. Above them, on the overhanging ramparts, there was quick discussion, and one man left his post hurriedly.

“A horseman from the West!” he announced, breaking in on Alwa's privacy without ceremony.

“One?”

“One only.”

“For us or them?”

“I know not, sahib.”

Alwa—glad enough of the relief from puzzling his brain—ran to the rampart and looked long at the moving dot that was coming noisily toward his fastness but that gave no sign of its identity or purpose.

“Whoever he is can see them,” he vowed. “The moon shines full on them. Either he is a man of theirs or else a madman!”

He watched for five more minutes without speaking. Cunningham and Mahommed Gunga, coming out at last in search of him, saw the strained figures of the garrison peering downward through the yellow moon rays, and took stand on either side of him to gaze, too, in spellbound silence.

“If he is their man,” said Alwa presently, “he will turn now. He will change direction and ride for the main body of them yonder. He can see them now easily. Yes. See. He is their man!”

On a horse that staggered gamely—silhouetted and beginning to show detail in the yellow light—a man whose nationality or caste could not be recognized rode straight for the bivouacking cavalry, and a swarm of them rode out at a walk to meet him.

The tension on the ramparts was relaxed then. As a friend in direst need the man would have been welcome. As one of enemy, with a message for them, however urgent, he was no more than an incident.

“By Allah!” roared Alwa suddenly. “That is no man of theirs! Quick! To the wheels! Man the wheels! Eight men to horse!”

He took the cord himself, to send the necessary signal down into the belly of the rock. From his stables, where men and horses seemed to stand ready day and night, ten troopers cantered out, scattering the sparks, the whites of their horses' eyes and their drawn blades gleaming; without another order they dipped down the breakneck gorge, to wait below. The oncoming rider had wheeled again; he had caught the cavalry, that rode to meet him, unawares. They were not yet certain whether he was friend or foe, and they were milling in a bunch, shouting orders to one another. He, spurring like a maniac, was heading straight for the searching party, who had formed to cut him off. He seemed to have thrown his heart over Alwa's iron gate and to be thundering on hell's own horse in quest of it again.

Alwa's eight slipped down the defile as quickly as phantoms would have dared in that tricky moon-light. One of them shouted from below. Alwa jerked the cord, and the great gate yawned, well-oiled and silent. The oncomer raced straight for the middle of the intercepting line of horsemen; they—knowing him by this time for no friend—started to meet him; and Alwa's eight, unannounced and unexpected, whirled into them from the rear.

In a second there was shouting, blind confusion—eddying and trying to reform. The lone galloper pulled clear, and Alwa's men drove his opponents, crupper over headstall, into a body of the main contingent who had raced up in pursuit. They rammed the charge home, and reeled through both detachments—then wheeled at the spur and cut their way back again, catching up their man at the moment that his horse dropped dead beneath him. They seized him beneath the arms and bore him through as the great gate dropped and cut his horse in halves. Then one man took the galloper up behind his saddle, and bore him up the hill unquestioned until he could dismount in front of Alwa.

“Who art thou?” demanded the owner of the rock, recognizing a warrior by his trademarks, but in no way moderating the natural gruffness of his voice. Alwa considered that his inviolable hospitality should be too well known and understood to call for any explanation or expression; he would have considered it an insult to the Sikh's intelligence to have mouthed a welcome; he let it go for granted.

“Jaidev Singh—galloper to Byng-bahadur. I bring a letter for the Risaldar Mahommed Gunga, or for Cunnigan-sahib, whichever I can find first.”

“They are both here.”

“Then my letter is for both of them.”

Cunningham and Mahommed Gunga each took one step forward, and the Sikh gave Cunningham a tiny, folded piece of paper, stuck together along one edge with native gum. He tore it open, read it in the light of a trooper's lantern, and then read it again aloud to Mahommed Gunga, pitching his voice high enough for Alwa to listen if he chose.

“What are you two men doing?” ran the note. “The very worst has happened. We all need men immediately, and I particularly need them. One hundred troopers now would be better than a thousand men a month from now. Hurry, and send word by bearer. S. F. BYNG.”

“How soon can you start back?” asked Cunningham.

“The minute I am provided with a horse, sahib.”

Cunningham turned to Alwa.

“Will you be kind enough to feed him, Alwa-sahib?”

Alwa resented the imputation against his hospitality instantly.

“Nay, I was waiting for his money in advance!” he laughed. “Food waits, thou. Thou art a Sikh—thou eatest meat—meat, then, is ready.”

The Sikh, or at least the true Sikh, is not hampered by a list of caste restrictions. All of his precepts, taken singly or collectively, bid him be nothing but a man, and no law forbids him accept the hospitality of soldiers of another creed. So Jaidev Singh walked off to feed on curried beef that would have made a Hindoo know himself for damned. Cunningham then turned on Alwa.

“Now is the time, Alwa-sahib,” he said in a level voice. “My party can start off with this man and our answer, if your answer is no. If your answer is yes, then the Sikh can bear that answer for us.”

“You would none of you ride half a mile alive!” laughed Alwa.

“I none the less require an answer, Alwa-sahib.”

Alwa stared hard at him. That was the kind of talk that went straight to his soldier heart. He loved a man who held to his point in the teeth of odds. The odds, it seemed to him, were awfully against Cunningham.

“So was thy father,” he said slowly. “My cousin said thou wast thy father's son!”

“I require an answer by the time that the Sikh has finished eating,” said Cunningham. “Otherwise, Alwa-sabib, I shall regret the necessity of foregoing further hospitality at your hands.”

“Bismillah! Am I servant here or master?” wondered Alwa, loud enough for all his men to hear. Then he thought better of his dignity. “Sahib,” he insisted, “I will not talk here before my men. We will have another conference.”

“I concede you ten minutes,” said Cunningham, preparing to follow him, and followed in turn by Mohammed Gunga.

“Now, swore the Risaldar into his beard, we shall see the reaching of decisions! Now, by the curse of the sack of Chitor we shall know who is on whose side, or I am no Rangar, nor the son of one!”

“I have a suggestion to make, sahib,” smiled Alwa, closing the door of the rock-hewn chamber on the three of them.

“Hear mine first!” said Cunningham, with a hint of iron in his voice.

“Ay! Hear his first! Hear Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur!” echoed Mahommed Gunga. “Let us hear a plan worth hearing!” And Alwa looked into a pair of steady eyes that seemed to see through him—past him—to the finished work beyond.

“Speak, sahib.”

“You are pledged to uphold Howrah on his throne?”

“Ha, sahib.”

“Then, I guarantee you shall! You shall not go to the Company's aid until you have satisfactory guarantees that your homes and friends will not be assailed behind your backs.”

“Guarantees to whose satisfaction, sahib?”

“Yours!”

“But with whom am I dealing?” Alwa seemed actually staggered. “Who makes these promises? The Company?”

“I give you my solemn word of honor on it!”

“It is at least a man who speaks!” swore Alwa.

“It is the son of Cunnigan-bahadur!” growled Mahommed Gunga, standing chin erect. He seemed in no doubt now of the outcome. He was merely waiting for it with soldierly and ill-concealed impatience.

“But, sahib—”

“Alwa-sahib, we have no time for argument. It is yes or no. I must send an answer back by that Sikh. He must—he shall take my answer! Either you are loyal to our cause or you are not. Are you?”

“By the breath of God, sahib, I am thinking you leave me little choice!”

“I still await an answer. I am calling on you for as many men as you can raise, and I have made you specific promises. Choose, Alwa-sahib. Yes or no?”

“The answer is yes—but—”

“Then I understand that you undertake to obey my orders without question until such time as a senior to me can be found to take over the command.”

“That is contingent on the agreement,” hesitated Alwa.

“I would like your word of honor, Alwa-sahib.”

“I pledge that not lightly, sahib.”

“For that very good reason I am asking for it. I shall know how far to trust when I have your word of honor!”

“I knew thy father! Thou art his son! I trusted him for good reason and with good result. I will trust thee also. My word is given, on thy conditions, sahib. First, the guarantees before we ride to the British aid!”

And you obey my orders?

“Yes. My word is given, sahib. The oath of a Rajput, of a Rangar, of a soldier, of a zemindar of the House of Kachwaha; the oath of a man to a man, sahib; the promise of thy father's friend to thy father's son! Bahadur”—he drew himself to his full height, and clicked his spurs together—“I am thy servant!”

Cunningham saluted. All three men looked in each other's eyes and a bond was sealed between them that nothing less than death could sever.

“Thank you,” said Cunningham quite quietly. “And now, Alwa-sahib”—(he could strike while the iron glowed, could this son of Cunnigan!)—“for the plan. There is little time. Jaimihr must escape tonight!”

“Sahib, did I understand aright?”

Alwa's jaw had actually dropped. He looked as though he had been struck. Mahommed Gunga slammed his sabre ferule on the stone floor. He too, was hard put to it to believe his ears.

“Jaimihr is the key to the position. He is nothing but a nuisance where he is. Outside he can be made to help us.”

“Am I dreaming, or art thou, sahib?” Alwa stood with fists clinched on his hips and his legs apart—incredulous. “Jaimihr to go free? Why that Hindoo pig is the source of all the trouble in the district!”

“We are neither of us dreaming, Alwa-sahib. Jaimihr is the dreamer. Let him dream in Howrah City for a day or two, while we get ready. Let him lead his men away and leave the road clear for us to pass in and out.”

“But—”

“Oh, I know. He is your prisoner, and your honor is involved, and all that kind of thing. I'm offering you, to set off against that, a much greater honor than you ever experienced in your whole life yet, and I've put my order in the shape of a request for the sake of courtesy. I ask you again to let me arrange for Jaimihr to escape.”

“I was mad. But it seems that I have passed my word!” swore Alwa.

“I give you your word back again, then.”

“Bismillah! I refuse it!”

“Then I do with Jaimihr as I like?”

“I gave my word, sahib.”

“Thanks. You'll be glad before we've finished. Now I've left the raising of as many men as can be raised to you, Alwa-sahib. You will remember that you gave your promise on that count, too.”

“I will keep that promise, too, sahib.”

“Good. You shall have a road clear by tonight.”

He stepped back a pace, awaited their salute with the calm, assured authority of a general of division, returned it, and left the two Rajputs looking in each other's eyes.

“What is this, cousin, that thou hast brought me to?” demanded Alwa.

Mahommed Gunga laughed and shook his sabre, letting it rattle in its scabbard.

“This? This is the edge of the war that I promised thee a year ago! This is the service of which I spoke! This is the beginning of the blood-spilling! I have brought thee the leader of whom we spoke in Howrah City. Dost remember, cousin? I recall thy words!”

“Ay, I recall them. I said then that I would follow a second Cunnigan, could such be found.”

“And this is he!” vowed Mahommed Gunga.

“Ho! But we Rangars have a leader! A man of men!”

“But this plan of his? This loosing of the trapped wolf—what of that?”

“I neither know nor care, as yet! I trust him! I am his man, as I was his father's! I have seen him; I have heard him; I have felt his pulse in the welter of the wrath of God. I know him. Whatever plans he makes, whatever way he leads, those are my plans, my road! I serve the son of Cunnigan!”