ng themselves and their fellows
with the intoxicating sounds.

"Death to the Feringhi! To-night, to-night! Our land for ourselves!"

All but a few torches were extinguished. Secret places were torn up, and
out came old guns, old swords sharpened to razor-like edges, great
pistols, clubs, skinning-knives, daggers. Then, up and up through the
dark jungle they thronged, hordes of them in the grip of a red and
silent frenzy. Chandra was in the forefront, but the leader was his
Honor the District Judge, a glassy-eyed, tight-lipped Mussulman in a
loincloth and a greasy turban.

The lights of the Collector's bungalow came in view, and the leader
thought of young Capper, and rushed on, frothing like a madman, waving
his sword above his head. Then he paused, and ran back to meet the
laggards of a yard or two.

"Only the men!" he shouted.

Chandra mocked at him as the press bore him onward again, with scarcely
an instant's halt.

"Only the men, my brother!" he echoed.

A few of the native police stood guard at the Collector's gates, but
they turned and fled before the overwhelming numbers of the attacking
force. Up the long drive the dark wave poured, and into the wide, bright
rooms. The bungalow was deserted. Some fleet-footed servant had brought
warning in time, and the British were well out of the town by the other
road, with young Capper and a score of his men guarding their rear.

The mob howled with disappointment. The next instant it was screaming
with triumph as it settled down to sack and burn and destroy.

The Judge went into the dining-room, and looked at the long table still
decked with silver, and glass, and flowers. He looked at the chair on
which he had sat, with Joan Malcolm at his side, and he picked it up and
dashed it with all his might into a great ivory-framed mirror, and
laughed aloud at the crash, and the ruin, and the rain of jagged
splinters.

"India must pass into the hands of the Indians!"

"Oh! _you_ think so--you think so--you think so...."

He overthrew a couple of standard lamps, and watched the liquid fire run
and eat up their silken shades, and run again and leap upon the snowy
curtains, and so, like lightning, spring to the ceiling, and lick the
dry rafters with a thousand darting tongues. Then, he was out in the
night again, the night of his life, the wonderful night that was calling
for blood, and would not be denied.

There was no lack of light now to make clear the path to ven