"Tell us, _huzoor_[24]" a veteran native officer eagerly demanded, "is he indeed dead?" [24] A title of respect. Ted assured the men that their idol still lived; but they shook their heads, crying that the English were merely trying to keep the death a secret, and the wailing recommenced still more noisily. A loud voice from the other side of the canvas thundered: "Budmashes! Why do ye disturb my peace with that unseemly noise? Wali Khan, drive the rascals away and thrash them well! Know ye then that Jan Nikkulseyn is still very much alive!" At the sound of the well-known voice a cry of joy went up, and Wali Khan, the old subadar-major, at once proceeded to carry out his order with vigour. So he mercilessly thrashed those whose chorus he had just been leading, scattering them in all directions. "Allah be praised!" yelled the men of Bannu, as they jumped out of reach of Wali Khan's stick. "Allah be praised! Nicholson Sahib is indeed alive!" He only lingered, however, for a very short time. On the 23rd September, 1857, John Nicholson died at the early age of thirty-five, having done his duty to God and to his country. Heavy were all British hearts that day, not only with the Delhi army but throughout the Punjab. May our country never lack such a son in time of trouble! The tidings of his death were soon proclaimed along the border, and men went about heavily as though mourning for a father. Many a villainous fellow, whose evil ways and dark deeds had incurred the displeasure of the commissioner, felt a sense of personal loss now that Jan Nikkulseyn--his father and mother and hero--was no more. Shortly after the arrival of the news, a number of his devotees in Bannu (a place which has been described as a "hell upon earth", because of its wickedness, before Nicholson was made commissioner thereof) gathered together to mourn their beloved chief. A _malik_, or headman, rising, spoke of the general's virtues, his love of truth and justice; then, suddenly ending, cried: "Oh, my brothers, what good is there in life now that our sahib is dead?" As he uttered the last word, the malik drew a knife quickly across his throat, and fell in their midst--a corpse. "He speaks truly! What is there to live for now?" cried others. But a pious man of great influence arose, and, stretching forth his hands to restrain them, spoke: "My children, think ye that our dead master would approve of this? Our brother was mistaken; that is not the way to honour him. Let us rather seek to learn something of the God who was worshipped by Nicholson Sahib." The listeners considered and approved this idea, and forthwith a number set out for Peshawur. From that town a visit was paid to the nearest missionary, with the result that several were converted to the Christian faith. To this day, when the wind blows strongly between the mountains, men along that frontier declare that they hear the tramp of Nicholson's war-horse. * * * * *