There was a bell somewhere in the room; but if he rang, and roused up the butler, the man would be horrified at hearing his old master's bedroom bell ringing in the dead of the night. Even if that had not been the case, what excuse could he make? And could he explain his position to Mr Girtle without making him the confidant of all that had passed? And how could he relate to any one that Katrine had been wandering about the house in the middle of the night? What would Mr Girtle say? Would he think it was somnambulism? No; he could not ring. It was impossible; and all the while there was that strange noise outside, muffled by the curtain. He walked cautiously through the intense darkness towards the window, till he could touch the curtain, and then, passing to the left, he softly drew it a little inward, and looked out. It was almost as dark out there as in; but there was a faint glow from the lamps beyond the tall houses that closed in the back, and against this he could dimly see the figure of a man, standing on the sill, while, more indistinctly and quite low down, there were the heads and shoulders of two more. It seemed to him that the man standing on the sill was trying to pass some instrument through between the two sashes, so as to force back the window-catch. What should he do? Give the alarm down-stairs he could not, without compromising Katrine. Alarm the nocturnal visitors? That would be to give up a chance of getting hold of the clue. What should he do? Be a coward, or, now that the opportunity had come, make a bold effort to capture these intruders? Three to one. Yes; but he was in the fort, and they had to attack, and could he secure one, bribery or punishment would make him tell all. There was the sound going on at the window, which was resisting the efforts, and, with palpitating heart and heavy breathing, Capel asked himself the questions again. Should he be cowardly, or brave, and make a daring effort to gain that which was his, from the information these people could give? There was a grating and clicking still going on as he stepped cautiously across the room, the sound guiding him to the stand where his uncle's old East India uniform and accoutrements were grouped, and the next minute his hands rested upon a pistol. Useless, for it was old-fashioned and uncharged. That was better! His hand touched the ivory hilt of the curved sabre. For a time the blade refused to leave its sheath; then it gave way a little, and he drew it forth, laid the scabbard on the floor, passed his hand through the wrist-knot, and thought that he would have to strike hard, for a cavalry sabre is generally round-edged and blunt. As he thought of this, he touched the edge of the sword with his thumb, to find that this was no regulation blade, but a keen-edged tulwar, set in an English hilt, and, armed with this, Paul Capel felt himself fully a match for those who were working away at the window, which did not yield.