It was the evening of the third day of the armistice, and as the sun began to set, the tired labourers in what was pleasantly called the “back garden” were able to look with pride upon the result of their toil. It is true that all were not satisfied with it, for the inexorable Runcorn, finding the work he had mapped out actually accomplished, was anxious to make further improvements. Since, however, the erection of sangars on the roof of Mabel’s room and of the hospital had rendered it possible to bring a converging fire to bear on all parts of the temporary breastwork, the Colonel considered any more tampering with the canal-banks unadvisable, and work was declared to be at an end. The sowars and other natives had already been marched back into the fort, but the white men lingered for a few minutes’ idleness in the fresh air. Runcorn was still urging his point on the rest, who were lounging in various attitudes of ease on the bank, when a shot was fired overhead. “What’s up?” shouted Woodworth. “There’s a fellow on Gun Hill,” answered Winlock’s voice from the ruined tower. “He seemed to be displaying a good deal of interest in our arrangements, so I sent a gentle reminder pretty near him.” “Don’t you go breaking armistices, or we shall get into trouble,” Fitz called out, and the subject dropped, but presently a hail from the farthest scout in the direction of the bridge brought every man to his feet. “He’s stopped some one--only one man--perhaps it’s a messenger!” cried Beltring. “Take your guns, you idiots! it may be a trap,” as the rest started off at a run. “Bring him with you, and retire on the next man,” he shouted to the Sikh, who obeyed, keeping his bayonet pointed at the stranger’s breast. “What is it?” inquired the white men breathlessly, as they ran up, to find the two stolid Sikhs guarding a feeble figure in native dress. “Don’t fire,” said the new-comer in English. “Don’t fire!” “No, no, they won’t,” said Woodworth impatiently. “Who are you?” “Don’t f--” began the stranger again, then looked round helplessly. “I can’t--I can’t--” he faltered, then threw off his turban with a hasty movement of the hand. “Don’t you--any of you----?” he murmured. “Are you English?” demanded Woodworth, with considerable misgiving, as he took in the details of the man’s appearance--the unkempt hair, the scanty grey beard, the lack-lustre eyes, and the bony face, with the lips trembling pitifully. “Not one of you?” went on the stranger, recovering himself a little. “Anstruther!” “I do! I do!” cried Fitz, with a mighty shout. “You fellows, are you blind? It’s the Major!” “The Major? Impossible!” was the cry, as Fitz wrung the new-comer’s hand with painful warmth. The idea seemed absurd, but gradually conviction grew upon the rest, and they stood round in awkward silence. Dick’s eyes sought their faces one by one. “What is it?” he asked, turning anxiously back to Fitz. “Will no one tell me? Is--is--how is----?”