Browne, with the readiness of the average American, again assumed command of the situation. He gave instructions that the prisoners, seven in number, be confined in the dungeon, temporarily, at least. Bobby did not make the mistake of pouring gratitude upon the faithful servitors; it would have been as unwise as it was unwelcome. He simply issued commands; he was obeyed with the readiness that marks the soldier who dies for the cause he hates, but will not abandon. "There will be no other attack on us to-night," said Browne, rejoining the women after his interview with Baillo. "It has missed fire for the present, but they will try to get at us sooner or later from the outside. Britt, will you and Mr. Saunders put those prisoners through the 'sweat' box? You may be able to bluff something out of them, if you threaten them with death. They--" "It won't do, Browne," said Deppingham, shaking his head. "They are fatalists, they are stoics. I know the breed better than you. Question if you like, but threats will be of no avail. Keep 'em locked up, that's all." Firearms and ammunition were taken from the gunroom to the quarters occupied by the white people. Every preparation was made for a defence in the event of an attack from the outside or inside. Strict orders were given to every one. From this night on, the occupants of the château were to consider themselves in a state of siege, even though the enemy made no open display against them. Every precaution against surprise was taken. The white servants were moved into rooms adjoining their employers; Britt and Saunders transferred their belongings to certain gorgeous apartments; Miss Pelham went into a Marie Antoinette suite close by that of the Princess. The native servants retained their customary quarters, below stairs. It was a peculiar condition that all of the native servants were men; no women were employed in the great establishment, nor ever had been. Far in the night, Genevra, sleepless and depressed, stole into the hanging garden. Her mind was full of the horrid thing that had happened to Hollingsworth Chase. He had been nothing to her--he could not have been anything to her had he escaped the guns of the assassins. And yet her heart was stunned by the stroke that it had sustained. Wide-eyed and sick, she made her way to the railing, and, clinging to the vines, stared for she knew not how long at the dull red glow on the mountain. The flames were gone, but the last red tinge of their anger still clung to the spot where the bungalow had stood. Behind her, there were lights in a dozen rooms of the château. She knew that she was not the only sleepless one. Others were lying wide awake and tense, but for reasons scarcely akin to hers; they were appalled, not heartsick.