'But,' went on the young Captain, 'it is a hollow peace. Of this my master is assured. If your rulers are prompt, if they crush out the insurrection with an iron hand, there may still be peace, for the loyal will be strengthened, and the discontented will fear to rise. If not, the torch of rebellion will flame out fiercely. From province to province it will be carried, and the wild heart of the Asiatic, which discipline has kept down but not subdued, will take fire and leap out in rapine and murder.' Then, in a few words, he told the story of the mutiny of Berhampore. It was ominous, but not nearly so dreadful as Tom had imagined. He began to breathe more freely. 'Are you sure there is nothing more?' he said. 'You are not keeping anything from me?' 'No, by my master's head! But is it not bad enough?' 'Yes, it is bad. Still it is a warning. The evil cannot have gone very deeply yet. We have time before us.' 'Who knows?' said Gambier Singh, shaking his head; and he added, 'My brother will stay with us till the storm blows over!' Tom paused for a moment, then turned his face, which was as white as death, to his companion. 'I cannot,' he said, 'a fire is consuming me. What it is, or whence it comes, I cannot tell, but I know that it will not let me rest. See, do not hold me back! I must recross the mountains. I must know what is happening. I must see the terror with my own eyes.' His voice sank, and then, in a moment, rose again, shrill and penetrating, 'I must save my people,' he cried, and fell back fainting into the arms of his friend. CHAPTER XIII LUCKNOW AND SIR HENRY LAWRENCE It is early in the morning. The golden dawn is breaking over the eastern hills, and the awful snow-peaks of Himâla shine like the gates of Heaven, when, in the pathetic dream of earth's children, they rise before the eyes that have looked upon the river of death. Here and there some lower point, leaping up from the confused mountain-world, has caught the glory of the morning, and stands forth, a pale herald of the full glad day; but the valleys, with all their wealth of corn-fields, forests, and clustering villages, are in the deepest shadow. They are the valleys we have just left, for we are on Sisagarhi again. A single tent is pitched here, but coolies are already busy loosening its cords, while the four small horses tethered close by are sniffing the morning air and neighing loudly. This, with the grunting of the camels as they kneel to be laden, and the harsh guttural cries of their drivers, breaks discordantly on the stillness of the morning. The two young men who have been occupying the tent, and who are standing outside, watching with full hearts the preparations for departure, walk away together to a quieter spot. For a few moments they stand silent, gazing out upon the world of mountains. Then the taller of the two holds out his hand, which the other grasps.