He sat down and told his companions the good news, and rejoiced at their congratulations.  But he slipped away to his own quarters very quietly as soon as the Colonel rose, and sat late by himself.

There was one, he knew very well, to whom the glad tidings would be a heavy blow—­but he could not—­no, not even for her sake—­stand aside.  For this opportunity he had lived, training alike his body and mind against its coming.  He could not relinquish it.  There was too strong a constraint upon him.

“Over the passes to the foot of the Hindu Kush,” he murmured; and in his mind’s eye he saw the road—­a broad, white, graded road—­snake across the valleys and climb the cliffs.

Was Russia at work? he wondered.  Was he to be sent to Chiltistan?  What was Shere Ali doing?  He turned the questions over in his mind without being at much pains to answer them.  In such a very short time now he would know.  He was to embark before a month had passed.

He travelled down the very next day into Sussex, and came to the house under the Downs at twelve o’clock.  It was early spring, and as yet there were no buds upon the trees, no daffodils upon the lawns.  The house, standing apart in its bare garden of brown earth, black trees, and dull green turf, had a desolate aspect which somehow filled him with remorse.  He might have done more, perhaps, to fill this house with happiness.  He feared that, now that it was too late to do the things left undone.  He had been so absorbed in his great plans, which for a moment lost in his eyes their magnitude.

Dick Linforth found his mother in the study, through the window of which she had once looked from the garden in the company of Colonel Dewes.  She was writing her letters, and when she saw him enter, she sprang up with a cry of joy.

“Dick!” she cried, coming towards him with outstretched hands.  But she stopped half-way.  The happiness died out of her.  She raised a hand to her heart, and her voice once more repeated his name; but her voice faltered as she spoke, and the hand was clasped tight upon her breast.

“Dick,” she said, and in his face she read the tidings he had brought.  The blow so long dreaded had at last fallen.

“Yes, mother, it’s true,” he said very gently; and leading her to a chair, he sat beside her, stroking her hand, almost as a lover might do.  “It’s true.  The telegram came last night.  I start within the month.”

“For Chiltistan?”

Dick looked at her for a moment.

“For the Punjab,” he said, and added:  “But it will mean Chiltistan.  Else why should I be sent for?  It has been always for Chiltistan that I have importuned them.”

Sybil Linforth bowed her head.  The horror which had been present with her night and day for so long a while twenty-five years ago rushed upon her afresh, so that she could not speak.  She sat living over again the bitter days when Luffe was shut up with his handful of men in the fort by Kohara.  She remembered the morning when the postman came up the garden path with the official letter that her husband had been slain.  And at last in a whisper she said: