The cry for water from one Mussulman to another cannot be neglected, and a sepoy ran for a water-skin, while the rest made their way to the injured officer. "All my bones are broken, I think," said he. "Ye have been long in coming. Look! here is a Feringhi boy still alive. Nay, do not kill him; he shall die more slowly." He drank the water feverishly. "Now, carry us to my brother's house, and do not let all the people know that we have a prisoner, lest in their rage they should straightway kill him, for I mean to torture him by raising hopes. Bear me gently." As they raised him the subadar fainted away. Tynan--for he, of course, was the Englishman--was still unconscious, and before the light that precedes the dawn had shown across the sky, the pair had been safely and secretly conveyed into the house of Muhammed Baksh on the outskirts of the town. The sun had risen and was high in the heavens before Ensign Tynan recovered consciousness. He raised himself painfully in the creaking string bed, and gazed in a bewildered manner, like an owl in the sunshine, around the small unfurnished room in which he lay. The shutters were closed, darkening the chamber, and, unable to make out his surroundings, and too weary to attempt to solve the mystery, he sank down again with a smothered groan. His head was badly cut; he had lost a lot of blood; and, though no bones were broken, he had hardly a sound, unbruised spot on his body. The roar of the explosion was ringing in his ears, and he still shivered with fright. For a long time he could not sleep, though, after what seemed to him an eternity of suffering, he at length fell into a fitful slumber, waking up between his nightmares in a cold perspiration of dread. During one of these intervals the door opened, and a Mohammedan sepoy entered bearing a little bread and a brass vessel containing water. Tynan devoured these to the last drop and crumb. "Who are you?" he asked the man. "Tell me, where am I?" The sepoy answered not a word and left the room. The food and drink had done the ensign good, brain and body becoming more brisk. He rose groaning from the bed and tried the door. It was locked, and he understood at last that he was a prisoner. A tremor ran down his back, and he felt cold, though the room was like a hothouse. A captive among the mutineers! Horrible prospect! But why should they have brought him here? he asked himself. Why not have straightway killed him? Could it be that they meant to torture him? The wretched boy groaned aloud, and in a frenzy of rage and despair kicked and beat the door, though every blow was anguish. He had not long to wait. Muhammed Baksh, his host, called angrily to Ghulam Beg, the silent waiter, and together they entered the room and began to belabour the unlucky ensign with long bamboo canes.