He explained that the detachment of the Guides had mutinied as soon as they heard of the arrival of the 138th; they had murdered the only white officer with them, and had appointed Ressaidar Bahram Khan as commandant. The announcement was not unexpected, yet up to this moment Ted had hoped against hope that Jim had escaped. "Art thou certain, Dwarika Rai, that they have slain my brother?" he asked after a painful pause. "Quite, sahib; they make boast of it. And look, their leader is wearing his uniform." Ethel Woodburn had entered the room unobserved, and, standing behind them, had overheard. She grasped a chair to steady herself, and shook her head as Ted besought her to retire to the ladies' room. There was a long silence. "Bahram Khan?" enquired the major presently, hardly knowing what to say. "Is that he, then, in the English officer's uniform and wearing his medals?" pointing to a muscular man who could be made out in the distance apparently ordering the sepoys about. "That is the hound, sahib," replied Dwarika Rai. "He has sworn to exterminate you all before noon to-morrow. He has taken command of all the treacherous curs." Ethel, half-stunned by the terrible tidings, was now seated, and Ted leaned against the girl's chair, gently stroking her hand,--dimly recognizing that her sorrow was even greater than his own. The shock of Captain Russell's murder was too sudden for her to realize fully, and the rest of the news seemed dwarfed to mere insignificance. The poor girl attempted to pull herself together by thinking how greatly her helpless father stood in need of her. "Bahram Khan!" said Ted bitterly. "Why, he is the cur who was present at the steeple-chase,--a robber and outlaw! However could such a crew have been trusted?" "It was Sir Henry Lawrence's doing," said Leigh. "It's rare for him to make a mistake, but here is the result of his great 'Guides' scheme. Evidently they don't mean to make the grand assault until to-morrow." "I wish they would," said Ted with feeling; "and end it, to-night." To give the boy credit, he was thinking more of the hours of bitter grief Ethel Woodburn was doomed to endure than of himself. It may be readily surmised that very few of the garrison contrived to sleep that night. Soon after sunrise all--women, civilians, black soldiers, and white officers--were gathered together to watch the mutineers assemble for the final assault. Of its issue there could be no doubt. As they stood there awaiting their fate Ethel Woodburn could not remain insensible, even at so trying a moment, to the beauty of the early Indian morning. The slanting rays of the Eastern sun were gilding the mosques and minarets of the town and lighting up with lurid glow the reddish buildings behind the fort, and the thought of Nature's beauty added to her sorrow. But the greater number of those doomed people had weightier matters to occupy their thoughts.