After a time we heard that the rebels and mutineers of that quarter were all massed, and living riotously, under the ex-Subadar-Major Buktawur Sing, in a place called Kuttingee, ten miles from Jubbulpore. They numbered several thousands--too strong for us to attack, and not even to save his wife dared Captain Heron risk the lives of his soldiers. And now it was that my comrade, Bill Brierly, came so manfully to the front. He was a queer fellow, Bill, and early in life had been--so the Queen's said--a strolling player. He was always merry and laughing, sang a good song, and was up to all kinds of larks; so now he volunteered to go to Kuttingee disguised as a _budmash_--one of the idle and rascally sort of irregular soldiers who loaf about bazaars, and are up to all kinds of mischief--and as such try to obtain some tidings of Mrs. Heron. 'Fifty guineas--aye, all I have in the world--are yours for any news you bring me, Brierly; even if they be evil,' said the captain, in a broken voice. 'Sir, I don't do this for money,' replied Bill; 'but for love of yourself and the poor young lady, who was so kind to me when in hospital--down with jungle fever. I risk my life daily for a shilling; why should not I do so, once at least, for her?' 'God bless you, Brierly!' said the captain, wringing his hand. 'God bless you!' How I envied Bill, and would gladly have gone with him, but he--used to acting, knowing the lingo and the ways of the country, and how to comport himself--could alone perform the perilous task he undertook, knowing well, too, the while, that if he fell into the enemy's hands by being discovered, he would suffer a death as elaborately cruel as these barbarians could devise. He attired himself in a blue silk koortah, over a muslin shirt; a yellow-coloured chintz was wrapped round his shoulders; he wore a green turban and white cummerbund, or sash, in which he placed a brace of double-barrelled pistols carefully loaded. His face and neck to the shoulders and his hands to the wrists were coloured with lamp-black, the cork he used being dipped in oil to cause the colour to adhere; and thus disguised, he left the Residency, singing as he went-- 'Sing hey, sing ho for the army O! Sing hey for the fame of the army O! A shilling a day is very fine pay, Then buckle and away for the army O!' And we watched him, as, after the heat of mid-day was past, he took, alone, the road that led to Kuttingee. Three days passed, and as there was no sign of poor Bill coming back, we began to fear the worst--that 'the niggers' had discovered and cruelly killed him.