"Then stand by."
Phillips carefully and noiselessly opened the shutter for an inch or two.
"Who's that?" he asked in a low voice; he asked the question in Pushtu, and in Pushtu a voice no louder than his own replied:
"I want to speak to Poulteney Sahib."
A startled exclamation broke from the subaltern. "It's my shikari," he said, and thrusting open the shutter he leaned out.
"Well, what news do you bring?" he asked; and at the answer Captain Phillips for the first time since he had entered into his twilit hall had a throb of hope. The expeditionary troops from Nowshera, advancing by forced marches, were already close to the borders of Chiltistan. News had been brought to the Palace that evening. Shere Ali had started with every man he could collect to take up the position where he meant to give battle.
"I must hurry or I shall be late," said the shikari, and he crawled away through the orchard.
Phillips closed the shutter again and lit the lamp. The news seemed too good to be true. But the morning broke over a city of women and old men. Only the watchmen remained at their posts about the Residency grounds.