'What cannot he do with regulation pipe-clay?' it has been asked. 'In his hands it is omnipotent over cloth. He can charm stains and grease-spots thereout, even as an Indian juggler charms snakes; and what sleight of hand he exercises over your garments generally. The tunic, grimed and mud-bespattered, he can switch and cane, and, when folded away, it comes out as from a press. Trousers baggy at the knees as the historical parachute of old Mrs. Gamp, are manipulated into their former shape. Compared to the private valet, always expensive and frequently mutinous, he is a pearl of the greatest price. His cost is a dole, and, thanks to the regimental guard-room, he can always be kept within control.' In the great cabin, which was brilliantly lighted still, Roland heard the loud hum of many voices where the jovial fellows he had left were lingering over their wine and talking unlimited 'shop'--discussing everything, from Lord Wolseley's supposed plan of the Soudan campaign to the last fashion in regimental buttons. How he envied the jollity and lightheartedness of his brother-officers--Dick Mostyn in particular. Dick had not lost an inheritance nor a false love to boot, certainly; but it was nothing to him that his pockets were well-nigh empty, his banker's account over-drawn, and that he had debts innumerable, all but paid by the proverbial 'a roll on the drum;' his talent for soothing irate tailors had failed him; still his wardrobe was faultless; he still wore priceless boots and irreproachable lavender kids as steadily as he retained his step in the waltz and his seat in the saddle, which would be of good service to him if he joined the Mounted Infantry. He could take nothing deeply to heart, and even now, leading the van in Bacchanalian noise and jollity--a verse of his song--it was from poor 'Tilbury Nogo,' ran through the cabin, and just then it seemed exactly to suit Roland's frame of mind as he lounged on a sofa with his uniform jacket unbuttoned: 'I sigh not for woman, I want not her charms-- The long waving tress, the melting black eye-- For the sting of the adder still lurks in her arms, And falsehood is wafted in each burning sigh; Such pleasure is poisoned, such ecstasy vain-- Forget her! remembrance shall fade in champagne!' CHAPTER XLV. THE DEATH WRESTLE. Tidings had come, as stated, to the zereba of Sheikh Moussa of the deportation of his kinsman Zebehr in a British ship of war as a State prisoner to Gibraltar, and Malcolm Skene--no longer cared for as a hostage--found himself in greater peril than before among his unscrupulous captors. He was conscious that his movements by day were watched more closely than ever now, and by night he was always placed in a close prison beyond the court wherein the lions were chained.