Each of these corpses Moussa Isa carried reverently down to the Prison that they might be "buried darkly at dead of night" with the other heroes, in softer ground without the walls--a curious funeral in which loaded rifles and belted maxim played their silent part. Apart from the honoured dead was buried the body of Private Augustus Grabble, shot against the Prison wall by order of Colonel Ross-Ellison for cowardice in the face of the enemy and desertion of his post. So was that of Private Green, deserter also. After the uninterrupted ceremony, Moussa Isa, in the guise of an ancient beggar, lame, decrepit, and bandaged with foul rags, sought the city and the news of the bazaar. Limping down the lane in which stood the tall silent house that his master often visited, he saw three men emerge from the well-known low doorway. Two approached him while one departed in the opposite direction. One of these two held the arm of the other. "I must hear his voice again. I have not heard his voice again," urged this one insistently to the other. "Nay--but I have heard thine, thou Dog!" said Moussa Isa to himself, and turning, followed. In a neighbouring bazaar the man who seemed to lead the other left him at the entrance to a mosque--a dark and greasy entry with a short flight of stone steps. As he set his foot upon the lowest of these, a hand fell upon the neck of the man who had been led, and a voice hissed:-- "_Salaam! O Ibrahim the Weeper!_ Salaam! A '_Hubshi_' would speak with thee...." and another hand joined the first, encircling his throat.... "Art thou dead, Dog?" snarled Moussa Isa, five minutes later.... Moussa Isa never boasted (if he realized the fact) that the collapse of the revolt and mutiny in Gungapur, before the arrival of troops, was due as much to the death of its chief ringleader and director, the blind faquir, as to the disastrous repulse of the great assault upon the Military Prison. § 2. It had gone. Nothing remained but to clear up the mess and begin afresh with more wisdom and sounder policy. It was over, and, among other things now possible, Colonel John Robin Ross-Ellison might ask the woman he loved whether she could some day become his wife. He had saved her life, watched over her, served her with mind and body, lived for her. And she had smiled upon him, looked at him as a woman looks at the man she more than likes, had given him the encouragement of her smiles, her trust, affectionate greeting on return from danger, prayers that he would be "careful" when he went forth to danger. He believed that she loved him, and would, after a decent interval, even perhaps a year hence, marry him.