“The mutiny has not touched this spot; but we hear every day the low rumbling of the distant storm, and we are told that our servants, and the native battalion that are our garrison, are only waiting for the signal to rise. I doubt this greatly. I have nothing to excite my distrust of the people, but much to recommend them to my favour. It is only two days back that I received secret intelligence of an intended attack upon my bungalow by a party of Bithoor cavalry, whose doings have struck terror far and near. Two companies of the--th, that I sent for, arrived this morning, and I now feel very easy about the reception the enemy will meet The strangest part of all is, however, to come. Captain Rolt, who commands the detachment, said in a laughing jocular way, ‘I declare, judge, if I were you, I would change my name, at least till this row was over.’ I asked him ‘Why?’ in some surprise; and he replied, ‘There’s rather a run against judges of your name lately. They shot one at Astraghan last November. Six weeks back, they came down near Agra, where Craven Loyd had just arrived, district judge and assessor; they burnt his bungalow, and massacred himself and his household; and now, it seems, they are after _you_. I take it that some one of your name has been rather sharp on these fellows, and that this is the pursuit of a long meditated vengeance. At all events I’d call myself Smith or Brown till this prejudice blows over.’” The letter soon turned to a pleasanter theme--his application for a leave had been favourably entertained. By October--it was then July--he might hope to take his passage for England. Not that he was, he said, at all sick of India. He had now adapted himself to its ways and habits, his health was good, and the solitude--the one sole cause of complaint--he trusted would ere long give way to the happiest and most blissful of all companionship. “Indeed, I must try to make you all emigrate with me. Aunt Grainger can have her flowers and her vegetables here in all seasons, one of my retainers is an excellent gardener, and Milly’s passion for riding can be indulged upon the prettiest Arab horses I ever saw.” Though the dangers which this letter spoke of as impending were enough to make Florence anxious and eager for the next mail from India, his letter never again alluded to them. He wrote full of the delight of having got his leave, and overjoyed at all the happiness that he conjetured as before him. So in the same strain and spirit was the next, and then came September, and he wrote: “This day month, dearest--this day month, I am to sail. Already when these lines are before you, the interval, which to me now seems an age, will have gone over, and you can think of me as hastening towards you.”