In the excitement which followed, spreading swiftly from his own, he had not--and it was typical of the man that he did not--forget Lance Carlyon's friendliness; a more equal friendliness than that of most. There was no need to drag him into the quarrel, the more so because the disloyalty of the Sikh pioneers was doubtful. They might complicate matters at the beginning. So he had locked and barred them into the inner courtyard, out of the way. But Captain Dering, he knew, was outside! Let him be alone with his troopers, as he, Roshan would be alone with them! Let them both try their influence; let them try conclusions on these terms. That was but fair. This first step, however, necessitated others. The original plot, with its waiting for the dawn, its cumbrous mechanism of keys, and pilgrims, and God knows what, was not to his liking. He meant to fight. And if, as the conspirators had asserted, some of the warders were friends hand and foot, his men could crack the nut of the gaol in half an hour. The sooner the better. Pidar Narâyan, he knew, had recognized him, and he was a fox for wiliness. Then, Captain Dering must be after him even now. And Dillon-_sahib_ might be on the alert any time. So the _coup de main_ must come at once. As to what might follow, that might be after the fashion of Meerut in '57, or not. Who could tell the end of anything? The beginning would be an opportunity for fair fight between him and a thief. Once more the epithet "fair" scorched and shrivelled him with vague remorse, not for Laila--she was but a woman, a woman who had played him false and who deserved the worst--but for that shot in the dark. For there were two Roshans, warring fiercely in heart and brain. Then, after his mad, reckless ride to the gaol, the first realities had come to him in the sight of Dr. Dillon, standing with the light in his hand to welcome friends; and in the sound of those two snap-shots proclaiming foes. Why? The question had come swiftly. What quarrel had he with Dr. Dillon? Or with Eugene Smith, whose tall, gaunt figure showed behind the other? Eugene Smith, who must have brought his wife, his child, with him! The horror, the terror of what might come, swept through the quondam prize pupil of a mission school; the horror, the terror, in the remembrance of the Great Mutiny, which is, alas! a legacy of wrong to young India. Which ties her hand and foot; which makes those who are worthy of the name shrink instinctively from anything which may rouse the underlying savagery--the unavoidable savagery--of their countrymen. Could he hold his troopers? Could he be sure? He had come to curse. Was it too late to bless? Then the memory of Laila--the whole hateful tale which was irrevocable--struck him hopeless. He was damned utterly; he could not escape. He sat rigid as a statue on his horse for a second; then with a wild fury gave the orders for his troopers to dismount and force the gates.