"Your slaves, _Nawab-sahib!_" had come the answer, making him smile proudly. _That_, at any rate, could not be stolen from him _now_. _Now_ he could fight and die in what should have been his real position. Yet, once more, when the search-light had come to throw that group of excited men hacking and hewing at doors closed by authority into significant black-and-white relief, that doubt had returned; that desire to be on the side, once more, of men like Dr. Dillon, whose bold resolve to be alone responsible for his gaol, which the warder's tale revealed, filled him with admiration. But that sudden throwing up of a trooper's hands, that sidelong stumble into death, had left Roshan cruel as death itself; for the man thus killed had been to him as a brother. So he had gone on with a fresh impulse towards revenge, and for a time found forgetfulness in the excitement, the action. For though the first gate, that one giving on the open sort of porch, had yielded, almost at once, to the troopers outside and the warders within, the second, barring the arched tunnel, was a tougher job. It was not until this had given way, and the attacking party were completely sheltered from the fire of the little garrison on the roof, that there was leisure for that thought to return: "What am I doing? Why am I doing it?" No man, it may be said broadly, ever fights without feeling that the battle is an appeal to a tribunal beyond himself, and Roshan did not feel this. Then the remembrance of the woman, the child, upstairs came persistently, burdened by the weight of that past tragedy which, in India, it is impossible to forget. And this was a woman who had always been courteous to him, a child to whom he had given toys. What was he doing? The men were at work on the last, the strongest gate, with every tool they could find. Not many, for Dr. Dillon's forethought had left them before barred doors everywhere. The delay had already been great; would be greater. They must be close now on the lines of the original plot, at which Roshan had laughed, for the dawn was showing faintly--a mere promise of light to come--in the east. And the storm was passing. The dull reverberations of faint thunder were lost now in the cries, the blows of those at work trying to batter down the iron bars. A sudden distaste--more than regret or repentance--came to Roshan as he stood silent, watching blow after blow; a sudden doubt. Which was the right? No man worth calling a man ever fights for anything else; every man worth calling one fights for that. But which was right? Those men, hacking and hewing, or the little garrison upstairs? There were no such searchings of heart there, at any rate; no question as to what they were doing, though at that exact moment they were engaged in the trivial occupation of drinking tea.