The Ruby Sword. Mitford Bertram

than half in the water when we found you, and—I’ve been down to the place this morning—and the water has been over more than twice your own length from where you were lying when we hauled you out. Lucky old Bhallu Khan heard the racket—eh?”

      “Rather. But, I say, Upward, I shot one of those brigands. Likely to be trouble raised over that?”

      Upward looked grave. “You never can tell,” he said. “You see, in a case of that sort, the Government has a say in the matter. Don’t give away anything about the shooting to anybody for the present, and we’ll think over what is best to be done—or not done—Perhaps you only winged your man.”

      “I hope so, if it will save any further bother. But, it’s a dashed cool thing assailing a peaceable traveller in that way. There’s no sort of war on here?”

      “No, but the fact of your being alone and unarmed—unarmed, at least, so far as they could see—was a temptation to those devils. They hate us like poison since we took over the country and prevented them—or tried to prevent them—from cutting each other’s throats, so they are not likely to let slip an opportunity of cutting ours instead.”

      “And after that first shot, practically I was unarmed, thanks to the swindling rascality of the British huckster in guaranteeing ammunition that jammed in the pistol. No more co-operative stores for me, thanks.”

      Now again the purdah was lifted, and the bearer appeared, bringing in tea and toast. Salaaming to Campian, he told his master that the mem-sahib would like to see him for a moment Upward, responding to the call, promptly received a lecture for not merely allowing, but actively inducing, the patient to talk too much. It could not be good for one just recovering from a shock to the head to talk—especially on exciting topics—and so on—and so on.

      Meanwhile in another tent Nesta Cheriton and the two younger girls were discussing the somewhat tragic arrival of the expected guest. To the former, however, his personality appealed more than the somewhat startling manner of his arrival.

      “But what is he like, Lily?” she was saying—not quite for the first time.

      “Oh! I told you before,” snapped Lily, waxing impatient, and burying her nose in a book—She was wont to be petulant when disturbed in the midst of an absorbing tale.

      “He’s rather fun,” replied Hazel. “He isn’t young, though. He’s not as old as father—still he isn’t young.”

      “I expect he’s quite an old fogey,” said Lily. “I don’t want to talk about him any more,” which reply moved Hazel to cackle elfishly, while cutting weird capers expressive of the vein mischievous.

      “Rather. He’s quite an old fogey. Isn’t he, Lily?”

      “I wish you’d shut up,” snapped that young person. “Can’t you see I want to read?”

      But later on, viz about tiffin time, Campian being recovered enough to put in an appearance, Nesta found good and sufficient reasons for the reversal of her former verdict. As Hazel had said, the new arrival was not young; yet her own term, “quite an old fogey,” in no sense applied. And the reversal of her said verdict took this form: “He’ll do.”

      This indeed, in its not very occult meaning, might have held good were the stranger even less qualified for her approval than she decided at a glance he was—for they had been quite a fortnight in camp, and on any male—save Upward, middle-aged and rangé, Nesta Cheriton’s very attractive blue eyes had not rested during precisely that period. And such deficiency had to her already come to spell boredom.

      In Shâlalai the British army of all branches of the service had been at her feet, and this for obvious reasons. She was young, attractive beyond the ordinary, and a new importation. Now the feminine counterpart of the British army as represented in Shâlalai, though in some cases young, was unattractive wellnigh without exception. Furthermore, it was by no means new—wherefore Nesta had things all her own way; for Shâlalai, for social and every other purpose, was the British army—Upward and the agent to the governor-general being nearly the only civilians in the place. So in Shâlalai Nesta was happy, for the British army, having as usual when not in active service, nothing particular to do, swarmed around her in multifold adoration.

      “Last time we saw each other we hardly reckoned to meet in such tragic fashion, did we, Mrs. Upward?” said Campian, as they sat down to tiffin. “I only hope I haven’t drawn down the ire of a vast and vendetta nourishing tribe upon your peaceful camp.”

      “Oh, we’re not nervous. The people who attacked you belong in all probability right the other end of the country,” she answered, easily.

      “I sent over to Gushki to let the political agent know about it,” said Upward. “Likely they’ll send back a brace of Levy sowars to have a look round. Not that that’ll do any good, for these darned ‘catch-’em-alive-ohs’ are all tarred with the same brush. They’re raised in the same country, you see.”

      “Seems to me a right casual section this same country,” said Campian. “You are all never tired of laying down what entirely unreliable villains these border tribes are, yet you simply put yourselves at their mercy. I’ll be bound to say, for instance, that there’s no such thing as a watch kept over this camp at night, or any other.”

      “No, there isn’t Tinkles here, though, would pretty soon let us know if any one came too close.”

      “Yes, but not until they were on you. Say four or five like those who tackled me—or even more—made up their minds to come for you some night, what then? Why, they’d be in the tents hacking you to bits before you had time to move a finger.”

      “Ghazis don’t go to work that way, Campian. They come for you in the open, and never break out with the premeditation a rush upon a camp would involve.”

      “I’ve often thought the same,” struck in Nesta. “I get quite nervous sometimes, lying awake at night. Every sound outside makes me start. Fancy nothing between you and all that may be in that horrible darkness, but a strip of canvas. And the light seems to make it worse. I can never shake off the idea that I can be seen.”

      “Why don’t you put out the light then, Miss Cheriton?”

      “Because I’m more frightened still to be in the dark. Ah now—you’re laughing at me”—she broke off, in a pretty gesture of protest.

      The stranger was contemplating her narrowly, without seeming to. Good specimen of her type was his decision, but these fair haired, blue-eyed girls, though pretty enough as pictures, have seldom any depth. Self conscious at every turn, though not aware of it, or, at any rate of showing that she was. Pretty? Oh, yes, no mistake about that—knows what suits her, too.

      Whether this diagnosis was entirely accurate remains to be seen—that its latter part was, a glance at Nesta left no doubt. She was attired in white and light blue, which matched admirably her eyes and golden hair, and she looked wonderfully attractive. The suspicion of sunbrown which darkened her complexion had the effect of setting off the vivid whiteness of her even teeth when she smiled. And then her whole face would light up.

      “What would you like to do this afternoon, old chap?” said Upward, as tiffin over, the bearer placed the cheroot box on the table. “Don’t feel up to going after chikór, I suppose?”

      “Well, I don’t know. I think I do. But I left my shot gun down at Chotiali with my other things.”

      “You’d much better sit still and keep yourself quiet for the rest of the day, Mr. Campian,” warned Mrs. Upward. “A nasty fall on the head isn’t a thing to be trifled with, especially in hot climates. I’ve seen too much of that sort of thing in my time.”

      But the warning was overruled. Campian declared himself sufficiently recovered, provided there was no hard climbing to be done. Tiffin had set him up entirely.

      “Do just as you like, old chap,” said Upward. “You can use my gun. I