camp in some haste, and effected a safe retreat. But this retreat was in itself an encouragement to the enemy--especially since the British force did not make for the plains, but seemed fated to wander farther into the hills--and Gobind Chand followed close upon its heels. At evening things looked very black for Colonel Keeling. He and his small body of men were holding a low hill which was commanded on all sides by higher hills. The valley surrounding it had only one opening, that to the north, by which he had entered, and across which Gobind Chand was now encamped, and it seemed quite clear that he had been caught in a _cul-de-sac_. He was clearly determined to fight to the last, however, for his men kept up a perfect pandemonium of noise at intervals all night. They fired volleys at imaginary enemies, performed trumpet fantasias at unseemly hours, and dragged their solitary gun, with much difficulty and noise, from place to place on the crest of the hill, apparently to find out where it would be of most service. In the morning Colonel Keeling looked at Sir Dugald and laughed. “It’s Gobind Chand or me to-day,” he said. “If he doesn’t advance into the valley in half an hour, we are done.” Before the specified time had elapsed, however, the vanguard of Gobind Chand’s force was pouring into the valley, the besieged keeping their gun for use later. Taking advantage of the cover afforded by the rocks with which the valley was strewn, the enemy, cautious in spite of their superiority of numbers, settled down to “snipe” at the hill-top. Colonel Keeling was radiant, and his men needed nothing to complete their happiness when they heard him muttering concerning “stainless Tunstall’s banner white,” “priests slain on the altar-stone,” “Fontarabian echoes,” and other things outside their ken. Suddenly, as he was making the round of the hill-top, and pushing his men down into cover, for the twentieth time, he found himself confronted by one of his own _chaprasis_ from Alibad, who, with a respectfully immobile face, held forth a letter. The Commandant turned it over as if he was afraid to open it. “How did you get here, Rahim Khan?” he asked. “By a rope from the top of the cliff, sahib.” “Fool! could the enemy see you?” “Nay, sahib; I was hidden by this hill as I crossed the valley.” No further reason for delay offering itself, Colonel Keeling turned his back upon the man and opened the letter. As he drew out the enclosure his hands shook and his dark face was white. As if by main force he unfolded the paper and held it before his eyes, which refused at first to convey any meaning to his mind:-- “Alibad. 1 A.M. “Daughter born shortly before midnight; fine healthy child. Mrs Keeling doing well. “J. Tarleton.” An exclamation of thankfulness broke from the Commandant, and he brushed something from his eyes before turning again to the _chaprasi_.