But it was Bob who brought all the available wraps from the cart, and made a comfortable couch on the rock for the ladies. After all, it was Mrs. Pottle that fell asleep first. She slept calmly through the night, though she declared when Bob made his appearance that she had scarcely shut her eyes. The night had passed peacefully. Bob himself had not dared to slumber, for fear lest the attack should be renewed. When morning dawned, he saw the Russians in their old position on the hillock. An occasional shot when one of the garrison exposed himself showed that they were still on the alert, but hour after hour went by and no attack in force was made. Thinking over the situation, Bob could not but conclude that the enemy were either bent on starving him out, or had sent for reinforcements. As nearly as he could judge, their original strength had been some eighty Cossacks and sixty Manchus. At least thirty men must now be subtracted as dead or incapacitated, and as it was likely that many who had escaped after the night attack were more or less badly hit, it was natural that they should hesitate before again approaching the fatal gully. With either of the two alternatives, Bob recognized that the prospects of the garrison were anything but good. The food question had confronted them the night before; if the Russians persisted in a blockade they would soon be face to face with starvation. There were so many mouths to feed—the ladies first of all, for whom the supply of rice and millet in the cart might suffice for a few days. There was almost nothing for the brigands, who, in fact, had already skinned and cut up Ah-Sam’s pony. Ah-Sam had only sufficient fodder in the cart to last his mules two days, even at the most economical rate, and there was not a vestige of herbage in the neighbourhood. Bob kept as much as possible out of Mrs. Pottle’s reach during that day. She had a most uncomfortable habit of asking pressing questions that he found it impossible to evade. But at nightfall she had an opportunity of making the enquiry on the matter that had troubled her all day—this very matter of food. "We have done very well," she said. "Ah-Sam’s rice is excellent, and his millet cakes passable, though I can’t trust him to make the tea. But what have you had, Mr. Fawcett? You have not shared in one of our meals to-day." "No, I shared with Ah-Sam." "But what did he have? He refused to take any rice or millet." "He shared with the Chunchuses." "Yes, but that’s what I don’t understand. They had nothing left yesterday: where did they get food to-day?" Bob hesitated, but knowing that the truth must come out sooner or later, he at last said: "We had a little beef—horse-beef, in fact; very like the real thing." Ethel shuddered. Mrs. Pottle gasped, then cried indignantly: "I am ashamed of you, Mr. Fawcett. I am not thinking of the poor beast. It is a shame to deceive me. You could have had rice: I would have boiled it for you myself."