"They are on the march again," my companion whispered, as he used his glass and went on making comments. "The guns look bright and clean; the scoundrels, they know their value to them. But they cannot manage them like our lads. Oh, Gil, boy, it is maddening to see them going off under our eyes, and we able to do nothing." "No," I said sadly; "it must be a surprise. We could do nothing even if our men were here." "Nothing," he replied as the rattle and tramp grew fainter, and horse after horse that I recognised, from some peculiarity of colour or mark, became merged in the crowd. "There must be a road through the village and along by the river. Oh, Gil, if they had been going to stay there for the night, I should have risked a surprise. Yes. There they go. Well, we can see at last the direction they take, and if there is a road, we'll risk a night's march, and try to come up with them. Our horses--our guns--in the hands of that wretched crew! And look at the groom dressed out in all that finery--plunder, I suppose. But only wait." At that moment I clutched at Brace's arm, and he gave quite a gasp of relief, for all at once we saw Ny Deen turn his horse, gallop to our left, and then pull up and face round while the troop wheeled to the left, trotted steadily along past the village, wheeled again, and then advanced parallel to the course we had seen them taking, but of course in the reverse direction, so that if they went on far enough, they would pass us about half a mile away. "They're drilling," I whispered excitedly. "Yes, drilling," cried Brace, and turning as he spoke. "Gil, lad, they will halt here for the night." He caught my hand in a tremendous grip, and his face lit up and his eyes flashed with excitement as he uttered a curious laugh. "Sit down, lad, and let's watch them," he cried mockingly. "We shall have some lessons on the management of a troop. By George, look at the dear old horses! They know the work so well that they are taking the men with them. Look, Gil, there's poor Craig's grey Arab. There they go. He wants to gallop, and that fellow has hard work to hold him in." The troop was kept at a steady trot, and as it reached the part of the plain facing us, we saw Ny Deen dash in front, wave his sword--a flashing curved tulwar--and the horses were reined in, halted, and then, after a minute's interval, during which we could hear the voice of the leader giving orders, they advanced again, but this time at a walk, while Ny Deen galloped on in advance, as if to map out the course he meant the troop to take. "The scoundrel rides well," muttered Brace, as we saw Ny Deen rein up and throw his horse back almost on its haunches. "Pretty good that, for a syce." "It is the Maharajah of Ahdenpore, sahib," said Dost, who had crouched behind us unnoticed, looking on and hearing every word we said. "What!" cried Brace, harshly. "I can see. I know the man; Lieutenant Barton's syce."