On the evening of the 8th of July, 1857, a party of officers belonging to different regiments in the Indian service were seated round the mess-room table in the barracks of Sattara, in the Bombay Presidency. An expression of anxiety was depicted on all their faces, and they spoke in that hushed subdued tone which men usually assume in moments of great peril. And they had reason to look anxious. The Indian Mutiny had already broken out, and recent events showed that its limits were not to be confined to the Bengal Presidency. The seeds of disaffection had been sown among their own men, and they knew not at what hour they might be called upon to meet them in open mutiny. The Orientals can veil the most treacherous designs under the deepest secrecy, and every officer felt, as it were, that he was carrying his life in his hands. At any hour the men, outwardly so respectful and obedient, might enter the very room where they sat and shoot them down at the mess-table. They had done so in other cases, and what guarantee had these that their lives were more secure? The inhabitants of Sattara were at no pains to conceal their rebellious tendencies, and their men were only restrained by that discipline which soldiers find it so difficult to shake off from openly expressing their sympathies with them. In truth, the whole country was in a state of slumbering rebellion, and no one could tell when the embers of disaffection might burst forth into an open flame. They felt as Prometheus might have felt if he had been bound to the sides of Mount Etna, in hourly expectation of an eruption. Escape there was none. If it came to the worst, they could meet their fate like brave men, and die sword in hand.