"Quite plenty," put in Chumru. The officer glanced at him and was convinced. Being a Mohammedan, he took Chumru's word without question, which showed the exceeding wisdom of Chumru in selecting a Brahmin for the sacrifice; thus was he prepared to deal with either party in an unholy alliance. They jogged in silence past the Alumbagh. The Brahmin, on reflection, decided that he would stab Chumru before the hoard was disturbed and he could then devise another hiding-place at his leisure. Chumru had long ago decided to send the Brahmin to the place where all unbelievers go, at the first suitable opportunity. Hence the advantage lay with him, because he held a strategic position and could choose his own time. Beyond the Alumbagh there were few houses, and these of mean description, and each moment the subadar's mind was growing clearer under the prospect of great wealth to be won so easily. "Where is this bungalow, friend?" said he at last, seeing nothing but a straight road in front. "Patience, brother. 'Tis now quite near. It lies behind that tope of trees yonder." The other half turned to ascertain in which direction his guide was pointing. "It is not on the main road, then?" "No. A man who has gold worth the keeping loves not to dwell where all men pass." A little farther, and Chumru announced: "We turn off here." It was dark. He thought he had hit upon a by-way, but no sooner did the horse quit the shadow of the trees by the roadside than he saw that he had been misled by the wheel-tracks of a ryot's cart. The Brahmin sniffed suspiciously. "Is there no better way than this?" he cried, when his charger nearly stumbled into a deep ditch. "One only, but you may deem it too far," was the quiet answer, and Chumru, placing his left hand on the Brahmin's mouth, plunged a long, thin knife up to the hilt between his ribs. CHAPTER IX A LONG CHASE It was not Lawrence's order but Malcolm's own suggestion that led to the desperate task entrusted to the young aide by the Chief. While those few heroic volunteer horsemen drove back the enemy's cavalry and held the bridge over the Kokrail until the beaten army made good its retreat, Sir Henry halted by the roadside and watched the passing of his exhausted men. He had the aspect of one who hoped that some stray bullet would end the torment of life. In that grief-stricken hour his indomitable spirit seemed to falter. Ere night he was the Lawrence of old, but the magnitude of the calamity that had befallen him was crushing and he winced beneath it.