"No, no. They sprang on him before he could use his rifle," he replied, as his pony scrambled up the bank. Swinging himself out of the saddle he continued: "We met Ranjit Singh on the road bringing him along. They are not far off. They tracked him to a village and overpowered him before he could resist. He had his loaded rifle beside him." That was the first happy moment I had experienced since the fatal night. The murderer was in our hands; and my poor havildar's death would be avenged. We stood in silence beside the river, watching the opposite bank intently. At last on it appeared a little group of figures, three in khaki, a fourth in white. Again the cheering burst out from the sepoys and continued as the canoe was sent across the stream to bring over the prisoner and his captors. Farid Khan was in front, his hands bound behind his back by a rope, the end of which was held by Havildar Ranjit Singh, who carried a rifle. As they came down the sloping path to the water's edge, it occurred to me that the prisoner, when in the cranky boat, might endeavour to capsize it and drown himself. So I ordered two or three of my best swimmers to strip and be ready to plunge into the river. But Farid Khan stepped carefully into the canoe and seated himself in the bottom of it and never moved until it reached our side. He laughed amusedly when one of his escort, trying to spring ashore, fell into the shallow water. As the canoe grounded the sepoys crowded round it with menacing looks; and we officers had to drive them back. Had we not been there they would have lynched him. Some cursed and reviled him, while others applauded his captors. But coolly and unconcernedly he stepped ashore with a cynical smile on his face. When the havildar had marched him up in front of me he stood quietly at attention. He was a young man twenty-one years old, with good features and a slight, well-knit frame. He returned my gaze steadily and seemed as little perturbed as though the offence he would have to answer for were of the slightest nature. The havildar handed me a rifle. "This was in the prisoner's possession when I arrested him," he said. I examined the weapon. The barrel was fouled; and in the magazine were eight cartridges. I warned Farid Khan that anything he said might be used in evidence against him, and then asked: "Why did you run away from the fort?" "Because, when I had shot the colour-havildar, it was the only thing to do," he replied unconcernedly. "You confess that you did shoot Shaikh Bakur?" I said. "Yes, I did shoot him." "Why?"