“You see, you can't call our end of this business war--it's sport,” said Courtenay. “Two battalions of Khyber Rifles, hired to hold the Pass against their own relations. Against them a couple of hundred thousand tribesmen, very hungry for loot, armed with up-to-date rifles, thanks to Russia yesterday and Germany to-day, and all perfectly well aware that a world war is in progress. That's sport, you know--not the 'image and likeness of war' that Jorrocks called it, but the real red root. And you've got a mystery thrown in to give it piquancy. I haven't found out yet how Yasmini got up the Pass without my knowledge. I thought it was a trick. Didn't believe she'd gone. Yet all my men swear they know she has gone, and not one of them will own to having seen her go! What d'you think of that?” “Tell you later,” said King, “when I've been in the 'Hills' a while.” “What d'you suppose I'm going to say, eh? Shall I enter in my diary that a chit came down the Pass from a woman who never went up it? Or shall I say she went up while I was looking the other way?” “Help yourself!” laughed King. “Laugh on! I envy you! If the worst comes to the worst, you'll have had the best end of it. If you fail up there in the 'Hills' you'll get scoughed and be done with you. You'll at least have had a show. All we shall know of your failure will be the arrival of the flood! We'll be swamped ingloriously--shot, skinned alive and crucified without a chance of doing anything but wait for it! You're in luck--you can move about and keep off the fidgets!” For a while, as he ate Courtenay's broiled quail, King did not answer. But the merry smile had left his eyes and he seemed for once to be letting his mind dwell on conditions as they concerned himself. “How many men have you at the fort?” he asked at last. “Two hundred. Why?” “All natives?” “To a man.” “Like 'em?” “What's the use of talking?” answered Courtenay. “You know what it means when men of an alien race stand up to you and grin when they salute. They're my own.” King nodded. “Die with you, eh?” “To the last man,” said Courtenay quietly with that conviction that can only be arrived at in one way, and that not the easiest. “I'd die alone,” said King. “It'll be lonely in the 'Hills.' Got any more quail?” And that was all he ever did say on that subject, then or at any other time. “Here's to her!” laughed Courtenay at last, rising and holding up his glass. “We can't explain her, so let's drink to her! No heel-taps! Here's to Rewa Gunga's mistress, Yasmini!”