So through the long, dread night with the hideous menace never out of their minds they talked bravely of what they would like to do, to be—­if only they were not to die so soon.  Several times Noreen left him and went to comfort, to console the poor Mohammedan women and children to whom she had given shelter.  Her brother refused to allow Dermot to relieve him on watch, saying that he could not sleep or rest, and begging him instead to remain with the girl to cheer her, to hearten her in the awful hours of waiting for the end.

So Dermot was with her when a sudden uproar outside caused him to dash out on to the verandah.  From behind the barricade on the front verandah Daleham was watching.

“What is it?  Are they attacking?” cried the soldier.

“No.  It’s not an attack.  They’re cheering somebody, I think, and firing into the air.”

Dermot stared out.  Men ran forward to the smouldering ruins of the factory and threw on them tins of kerosene oil, looted from the murdered Parsi’s shop, until the flames blazed up again and lit up the scene.  The hundreds of coolies were cheering and crowding round a body of men in red coats.

“I believe it’s the Rajah’s infantry,” said Dermot.  “Are they going to attack?  Sher Afzul, wake up the others and tell them to be on their guard.  Give me that rifle, Daleham.”

So Noreen did not see her lover again until the sun rose on a scene of desolation and ruin.  Smoke and sparks still came from the blackened heaps of the destroyed buildings.  The cordon of sentries had apparently been withdrawn; but when Daleham climbed up on the barricade to get a better view a shot was fired from somewhere and a bullet tore up the ground before the bungalow.

A couple of hours dragged slowly by; and then a servant doing sentry on the front verandah reported a cloud of dust on the road from the forest leading to the village.  Dermot went out on the front verandah which looked towards the coolie lines and put up the glasses.

“Some men on horses.  Yes, and a motor-car coming slowly behind them,” he said to Daleham and his sister, who had followed him out.  “It’s the Rajah and his escort, I suppose.  Things will begin to move now.”

When the newcomers reached the village a storm of shouting arose.  Volley after volley of shots were fired, conch-shells blown, tom-toms beaten.

“Yes, there’s no doubt of it.  It must be that fat brute,” said Daleham.

Half an hour went by.  The sun was high in the heavens.  The landscape was bare of life.  Not a man was visible.  But presently from the village came a little figure, a naked little coolie boy.  He moved slowly towards the bungalow, stopping every few minutes to look back to the huts, then advancing again with evident reluctance.

Dermot watched him through the glass.  The whole garrison was on the verandah.

“He’s a messenger.  I see a letter in his hand,” said the soldier.  “Poor little devil, he’s in an awful funk.  None of the cowards dared do it themselves, so they beat this child and made him come.”