"Who are they, sahib?" asked Govind Singh. "Is it a new kind of soldier like those big warriors in petticoats we first saw yesterday?" And Ted tried hard to explain to the Sikhs how Britain's chief strength lay, not in her comparatively small army, but in her glorious navy. "But why are they doing coolie work? They are indeed strong as bullocks." "Do bullocks take a pride in their work, or can they do it half so well?" Ted replied. "These men love their guns, and they rejoice in their strength, and so they are invincible." In all probability Ramzan Khan had saved our hero's life that November afternoon, but the same night he was fighting desperately against an equally remorseless foe, against whom his orderly's swordmanship was of no avail. For he was again down with cholera, and this time a far worse attack than the slight one at Delhi, and when his chums left his bedside next morning they hardly dared hope to see him again. For days he lay between life and death, and then, thanks to a tough constitution and a healthy life, he rallied and began to pick up. The Martinière, in which he lay, was a vast palace built by Claude Martin, a French adventurer who had amassed great wealth in Lucknow. It was a curious building, with statues placed wherever they would stand, in grotesque profusion. The Frenchman had hoped to sell the palace to his friend the King of Oudh, naming a price of one million sterling. But the monarch had laughed at the idea, informing old Monsieur Martin that by their law the property would belong to the sovereign on the death of the owner. So Martin determined to outwit the king, and prepared his own tomb within the building. In due course Claude Martin died and was buried therein, thus circumventing his royal master, for no Mussulman dare live in a building in which the body of an unbeliever has lain. Previous to the siege the Martinière had been used as a school for the children of soldiers. As Ted lay in helpless pain the booming of the guns never seemed to cease. In spirit he was back again with the Gurkhas on the Ridge, watching Brind's battery pounding at the walls of Delhi. At last the thunder of the cannon ceased, and he fell asleep. When he woke up Alec Paterson was talking to the doctor, and he heard the latter say: "I think he's all right now; he's had a bad time, though." "Hullo, Alec! Has Brind breached the walls yet?" "Brind? You're wandering, old man; we're just outside Lucknow." And, faintly remembering, Ted began to collect his scattered wits. "I've been dreaming," said he. "I thought we were still on the Ridge. I remember now. Sir Colin is attacking to-day, isn't he?" "Not to-day; we're retreating to-day." "What? D'you think you can pull my leg so easily?" "It's a fact. The force is retiring, and I've come on with instructions. Listen! Those are Blunt's guns." "And do you mean to say that we're leaving Lucknow to the rebels?" "I do." "And Outram and Havelock, and the women and children?"