But it was not on this point alone that Francis was now opposed to Hastings.  The peace between them proved to be only a short and hollow truce, during which their mutual aversion was constantly becoming stronger.  At length an explosion took place.  Hastings publicly charged Francis with having deceived him, and with having induced Barwell to quit the service by insincere promises.  Then came a dispute, such as frequently arises even between honourable men, when they may make important agreements by mere verbal communication.  An impartial historian will probably be of opinion that they had misunderstood each other:  but their minds were so much embittered that they imputed to each other nothing less than deliberate villainy.  “I do not,” said Hastings, in a minute recorded on the Consultations of the Government, “I do not trust to Mr. Francis’s promises of candour, convinced that he is incapable of it.  I judge of his public conduct by his private, which I have found to be void of truth and honour.”  After the Council had risen, Francis put a challenge into the Governor-General’s hand.  It was instantly accepted.  They met, and fired.  Francis was shot through the body.  He was carried to a neighbouring house, where it appeared that the wound, though severe, was not mortal.  Hastings inquired repeatedly after his enemy’s health, and proposed to call on him; but Francis coldly declined the visit.  He had a proper sense, he said, of the Governor-General’s politeness, but could not consent to any private interview.  They could meet only at the council-board.

In a very short time it was made signally manifest to how great a danger the Governor-General had, on this occasion, exposed his country.  A crisis arrived with which he, and he alone, was competent to deal.  It is not too much to say that if he had been taken from the head of affairs, the years 1780 and 1781 would have been as fatal to our power in Asia as to our power in America.

The Mahrattas had been the chief objects of apprehension to Hastings.  The measures which he had adopted for the purpose of breaking their power, had at first been frustrated by the errors of those whom he was compelled to employ; but his perseverance and ability seemed likely to be crowned with success, when a far more formidable danger showed itself in a distant quarter.

About thirty years before this time, a Mahommedan soldier had begun to distinguish himself in the wars of Southern India.  His education had been neglected; his extraction was humble.  His father had been a petty officer of revenue; his grandfather a wandering dervise.  But though thus meanly descended, though ignorant even of the alphabet, the adventurer had no sooner been placed at the head of a body of troops than he approved himself a man born for conquest and command.  Among the crowd of chiefs who were struggling for a share of India, none could compare with him in the qualities of the captain and the statesman.