Ghulam Rasul advanced to the parapet, and peered narrowly over the sand-bags which capped it. “I know not how they come on so steadily, sahib,” he said hesitatingly, when he stood erect again. “Perhaps it might be well for your honour----” but he was interrupted by a frantic shout from both gateway turrets at the same moment. “Hold your fire! Hold your fire! The Colonel Sahib!” “It is the luck of the Baba Sahib,” said Ghulam Rasul calmly, as Mr Burgrave and the doctor raced one another for the nearest turret. The doctor, not being hampered with a crutch, reached the goal first, and saluted the advancing force with the information that they had just missed being blown into smithereens. “All well, I hope?” said Colonel Graham, as the guard of the turrets descended tumultuously to unbar the gate. “All well, Colonel, and the garrison increased by one since you left. And what about the guns, if I may ask?” “The guns? Oh, they’re at the bottom of the canal,” was the answer that stupefied Dr Tighe, as the forlorn hope began to file through the gateway. “Then you were successful after all,” inquired the incredulous voice of Mr Burgrave from the steps. “Oh, I see it! I see it!” cried Dr Tighe, laughing wildly. “You settled the guns, Colonel dear, and then you came home another way, while the enemy are all waiting for you under the hill at this moment! Oh, pat me on the back, somebody, or I’ll die!” “What’s wrong with you, Tighe?” asked Colonel Graham in astonishment, as the doctor sat down upon a pile of the sand-bags that had been taken away from the gate, and fairly wept. “If you’d been through what I have to-night, going backwards and forwards between life and death, as I may say, and expecting those fiends to break in any moment--why, you would be glad to find yourself and other people still alive,” was the incoherent reply, as Dr Tighe accepted a sip from the flask which Winlock held out to him. “But I beg your pardon, Colonel Graham and gentlemen, for this exhibition,” he added stiffly, as he rose and smoothed down his coat. “It was the thought that there’s a chance now for Mrs North and the child that bowled me over.” “The child?” cried Fitz. “Is it a boy, doctor? Oh, good luck! Three cheers for the Luck of Alibad!”