was it, and its sternly set expression
was that of a man who had schooled himself to endure the supreme ill
that destiny may hold in store.

CHAPTER XXVII

J'ACCUSE!

"Of course, there could be but one ending to it all. The man to whom
you have promised yourself--Garth Trent--was court-martialled and
cashiered."

As she finished speaking, Elisabeth's hands, which had been tightly
locked together upon her knee, relaxed and fell stiffly apart, cramped
with the intensity of their convulsive pressure.

Sara sat silent, staring with unseeing eyes across the familiar bay to
that house on the cliff where lived the man whose past history--that
history he had guarded so strenuously and completely from the ears of
their little world--had just been revealed to her.

Mentally she was envisioning the whole scene of the story which
hesitatingly--almost unwilling, it seemed--Elisabeth had poured out. She
could see the lonely fort on the Indian Frontier, sparsely held by its
indomitable little band of British soldiers, and ringed about on every
side by the hill tribes who had so suddenly and unexpectedly risen in
open rebellion. In imagination she could sense the hideous tension as
day succeeded day and each dawning brought no sign of the longed-for
relief forces. Indeed, it was not even known if the messengers sent by
the officer in command had got safely through to the distant garrison to
deliver his urgent message asking succour. And each evening found
those who were besieged within the fort with diminished rations, and
diminished hope, and with one or more dead to mark the enemy's unceasing
vigilance.

And then had come the mysterious apparent withdrawal of the tribesmen.
For hours no sign of the enemy had been seen, nor a single fugitive
shot fired when one or other of the besieged had risked themselves at
an unguarded aperture, whereas, until that morning, for a man to show
himself, even for a moment, had been to court almost certain death.

Could the rebels have received word of the approach of a relieving
force, whispers of a punitive expedition on its way, and so stolen
stealthily, discreetly away in the silence of the night?

The hearts of the little beleaguered force rose high with hope, but
again morning drew to evening without bringing sight or sound of
succour. Only the enemy persisted in that strange, unbroken silence,
and, at last, a hasty council of war was held within the fort, and
Garth Trent, togeth