“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.