“It’s only Flora’s poetical way of speaking,” said Georgia. “I’m sure it sounds much better to talk of keeping the marches than of running the frontier.” “Yes,” said Flora. “I was thinking of the inscription in Sir Walter Scott’s hall at Abbotsford, about the ‘men wha keepit the marchys in the old tyme for the Kynge. Trewe men war they in their tyme, and in their defence God them defendyt.’” “I like that,” said Georgia softly. “Well,” said Dick, “it’s all very well for me, but Torvalvin’s coming out will be a fearful blow for Burgrave. I suppose he will feel bound to resign, for I certainly don’t see how they can work together. Did he seem much cut up, Beltring?” “He didn’t show it, sir. Only said he thought you would like to see the telegram. Why, his lamp has gone out!” Beltring had reached the threshold on his way back. “Good heavens! what’s that?” A wild uproar was arising from the camp, which stretched into the desert beyond the Sarai, and alternate cries of “Dīn! Dīn!” and “Ghazis!” were discernible. “A Ghazi raid!” cried Dick, springing for his sword. “Georgie, take the boy and Rahah, and barricade yourself in with Mab and Miss Graham. You have two revolvers, and I’ll send help as soon as possible. Take the chairs. They’ll help you to build up a corner.” Rahah ran out with the baby, and Dick and Beltring saw the ladies safely to the door of the sick-room, then rushed to the gateway, where they stumbled over the dead body of the sentry. The tumult in the camp still continued, shouts and yells coming from several directions mingled with the sound of shots, but in each case all was quiet again before they arrived at the point of interest. Such of the troops as were new to the frontier looked somewhat ashamed when they realised that the attack which had thrown the camp into confusion was the work of only four men, but the more experienced knew that four desperate fanatics, armed to the teeth, and determined to kill until they themselves were killed, were by no means foes to be despised. The one who had fought most obstinately wore a green turban, and Dick nodded grimly as he caught sight of his face. “Bahram Khan! I thought so,” he said. “But I’m afraid there’s been the devil’s own work done in the Sarai. Bring torches.” A number of officers ran back with him to the gateway, where the sentry was found to have been dexterously strangled from behind. Entering the courtyard, they turned towards the Commissioner’s quarters, which were still in darkness. Suddenly Dick’s foot slipped.