ite god upon its neck. Had he not come invisibly among them again? Had
they not witnessed the fate of those that opposed him? Had he not summoned
from all Hindustan his man-devouring monsters to punish, to annihilate his
enemies. Forgetful of their hate, their bloodthirst, their lust of battle,
conscious only of their guilt, the terror-stricken crowds surged forward
and flung themselves down in supplication on the earth. They wept, they
wailed, they bared their heads and poured dust upon them, in all the
extravagant demonstration of Oriental sorrow. Out from the village streamed
the women and children to add their shrill cries to the lamentations.

With uplifted hand, Dermot silenced them. An awful hush succeeded the
tumult. He swept his eyes slowly over them all, and every head went down to
the dust again. Then he spoke, solemnly, clearly; and his voice reached
everyone in the prostrate mob.

"My wrath is upon you and upon your children. Flee where you will, it shall
overtake you. You have sinned and must atone. On those most guilty
punishment has already fallen. Where are they that misled you? Go look for
them under the feet of my elephants. Yet from you, ye poor deluded fools,
for the moment I withhold my hand. But touch a single hair of those in your
midst whom I protect, and you perish."

Not a sound was heard.

Then he said:

"Men of Lalpuri, who have come among these fools in thirst for blood. You
have heard of me. You have seen my power. You see me. Go back to your city.
Tell them there that I, who fed my elephants on the flesh of your comrades
in the forest, shall come to them riding on my steed sacred to _Gunesh_. If
they spare the evil counselors among them, then them I will not spare. Of
their city no stone shall remain. Go back to them and bear this message to
all within and without the walls, 'The British _Raj_ shall endure. It is my
will.' Tell them to engrave it on their hearts, on their children's
hearts."

He paused. Then he spoke again:

"Rise, all ye people. Ye have my leave to go."

Noiselessly they obeyed. He watched them move away in terrified silence.
Not a whisper was heard.

Then he smiled as he said to himself:

"That should keep them quiet."

He turned Badshah towards the bungalow.

Forty miles away, when darkness fell on the mountains that night, the army
of the invaders slept soundly in their bivouacs around the doomed post of
Ranga Duar. On the morrow the last feeble resistan