It’s no use mincing matters (wrote Harry English); we are besieged, and the worst of it is, our work’s not done. For Cartwright and his good fellows have either fallen into the wily old chief’s hands, or are as hotly pressed as we are ourselves. We have been able to get no tidings from him so far. It’s rather a joke, isn’t it—though a grim one? We started so cocksure of setting him free, and here we are in a trap ourselves. Well, I’m going to try and get this letter through to you, as the Major—we call him the Colonel now—is trying to run another despatch. It will probably be the last for some time, so don’t be alarmed, love, if you are long without news. The old fort is sturdy and well placed, and we shan’t have even the glory of danger. God keep you. The letter—in its incredibly soiled and creased cover—was docketed with soldierly neatness: "Brought back by messenger unable to pass." The rest of the papers in the case were all loose sheets. The earlier of these were carefully dated. But presently this methodic precision was dropped. Most of them seemed to be merely disconnected jottings, at times scarcely more than a phrase or two—as it were the fixing of a passing thought—others, again, a sort of outpouring that covered whole pages: thus, nearly to the end. But the last two sheets were once more inscribed with something of the formality of a document. I shall write you a sort of journal, and, please God (had begun Harry English), we shall read it together some day. Our poor dusky Mercury came back to us quicker than he left, with a bullet in him. I am troubled at the thought of your suspense, but, from the last letter I got through, you will gather that this state of affairs was not unexpected: the old chief has been too much for us for the moment. But they are warned at headquarters and we may expect relief in our turn any day. We must not be impatient, though, as they’ll have a stiff job getting across the snows. Meanwhile we are all for glory here, and are determined to out-guile or out-fight the Khan before anything so common and everyday as a relief takes place. We’re a first-class set of fellows, doctor and all complete; the Major’s a brick. Our own boys are rocks (as usual), and Leicester has forty Goorkhas that I’d back—well, against anything! Of course there are these Afridis we can’t trust; but they know who’s master here. And we’ve got the old flag, Rosamond—floating grandly like a living thing. We keep up the good old ceremony when running it up at dawn. And you should see the grins flash out on those black faces, when Vane gives his last vicious little twist to the cord in the cleat to make fast for the day! By the way, this business is doing Vane a lot of good. He was a soft pink pulp of a boy, but the little fellow’s got pluck, and it’s coming out now.