When Walter Gordon and Zeemit Mehal had got clear of Meerut, and fairly on the great highway, they turned into a paddy (rice) field, where there was a small bamboo hut. Into this they crept, for the heat of the sun was so terrific, and walking was almost impossible. Suffering from extreme fatigue, Walter threw himself into a heap of straw, and thought over the terrible events of the last two hours, and as he remembered that Flora Meredith was in the hands of the enemy, he felt distracted, and inclined to continue his journey without a moment’s delay. But, however strong his energy, his physical powers were not equal to it, for even the natives themselves felt prostrated by the intense heat of the Indian summer. And yet it was awful to have to remain there while she who was dearer to him than life itself was surrounded with deadly peril. He wondered what had become of his friend Harper. Had he escaped death? and if so, would he be able to return to Meerut to comfort his dying wife? for Walter had no doubt in his own mind that Mrs. Harper was stricken down never more to rise. Even if he were fortunate enough to discover his friend and his affianced, he would have sorry news to convey to them. But it was the time of sorry news. Nay, it was but the very commencement of a long period, during which there would be no other news but that of suffering, of sorrow, and death. The storm had indeed burst, with a fury undreamt of--unparalleled; and through the darkness scarcely one gleam of hope shone. From mouth to mouth, amongst the natives, the terrible words had passed--“Death to the beef-devouring, swine-eating Feringhees!” They were truly awful words, well calculated to inflame the minds of the black races, who had for years been taught by their leaders and their priests to cherish in their hearts an undying hatred for the British; to look upon the Great White Hand as a hard and grinding one, that should be crushed into the dust, and its power for ever destroyed. The dogs of war had been slipped, and Havoc and Destruction stalked hand in hand through the land. And though the “lightning posts” might flash the news to the great towns, it was doubtful if succour could be sent in time to prevent the spread of the awful desolation. As these and similar thoughts flitted through the restless brain of Walter Gordon, he realised that the position of himself and his friends called for the most decisive action. In a few brief hours his own little circle had been broken. His friend Harper had gone, and, in all probability, would be one of the early victims. That friend’s wife was drawing near the end of her earthly troubles. Mrs. Meredith was already dead, and what the fate of Flora might be he shuddered to contemplate. This latter thought distracted him, and he seemed to be suddenly endowed with superhuman strength.