carefully searched, for notwithstanding their losses, they were still more than thrice as numerous as Colonel Keeling’s force. There was no question of letting them go, for this would have meant for them either a slow death by hunger or a swift one at the hands of the Sheikh-ul-Jabal; they were to be planted out, under strict supervision, in small colonies in different parts of Upper Khemistan, and they rather welcomed the prospect than otherwise. It was long before the prisoners were all disarmed, their spoil collected, a meal provided for them, and the different bands set on the march, duly guarded, for their various destinations; and not until then did Sir Dugald venture to give Colonel Keeling the letter which was burning in his pocket. He saw the sudden fury in the Commandant’s eyes as he realised the truth, and braced himself to meet it. “You--you dared to keep this from me all these hours?” “It was her wish. She made Tarleton promise.” Colonel Keeling turned and shouted for his horse. “I will never forgive you if anything goes wrong!” He flung the words at Sir Dugald as he mounted, then clattered furiously down the rocky track, followed by his orderlies. One of them fell from his saddle exhausted before half the distance was covered, the horse of the other broke down when Alibad was barely in sight; but about sunset a desperate man rode a black horse white with foam at breakneck speed through the streets, and reined up precipitately in the compound of Government House. The servants, gathered in whispering groups, fell away from him as he sprang up the steps, but the old _khansaman_ ventured to speak as he saw his master pause to unbuckle the sword which clanked behind him. “It is not necessary, sahib,” he murmured humbly; but Colonel Keeling looked straight through him, laid the sword noiselessly on a chair, and went on, to be met by Dr Tarleton, who caught him by the arm. “Keeling, wait! There were bad symptoms, you know----” His friend brushed him aside as if he had been a feather, stepped past the weeping ayah, who threw herself on her knees before him and tried to sob out something, swept back the curtain from the doorway and crossed the room at a stride, then fell as one dead beside the dead form of his wife, in whose hand was still clenched the note he had scribbled on the battlefield. There he remained for hours, his arms outstretched across the bed, no one venturing to disturb him, until Lady Haigh, her eyes bright with fever, tottered into the room, and laid a hot hand on his shoulder. “Come!” she said. “Colonel Keeling, you must. She would have wished it. You must change your clothes and have something to eat, and then you must see the baby--Penelope’s baby.”