"Hooray! for a Europe morning," came a more boyish one breaking into a carol, "of all the days within the week I dearly love----"
"Shut up, Fitz!" put in a third, "you'll wake the General!"
"What's the odds? He can sleep all day. I'm sure his buggy charger needs a rest."
"Do shut up, Fitz! The Colonel will hear you."
"I don't care. It's Scriptural. Thou and thy ox and thy ass----"
"You promised to come to evening church, Mr. Fitzgerald," interrupted a reproachful feminine voice; "you said you would sing in the choir."
"Did I? Then I'll come. It will wake me up for dinner; besides, I shall sit next you."
The last words came nearer, softer. Mr. Fitzgerald was evidently riding home beside someone's carriage.
Pleasant and peaceful indeed! that clank of a sentry, here and there, only giving a greater sense of security. Not that it was needed, for here, beyond cantonments, the houses of the clerks and civilians lay as peaceful, as secure. In the veranda of one of them, close to the road, a bearer was walking up and down crooning a patient lullaby to the restless fair-haired child in his arms.
No! truly there could be no fear. It was all talk! He set spurs to his horse and went on through the silent night at a hand-gallop, for he had another beast awaiting him halfway, and he wished to be in Delhi by dawn. There was a row of tall trees bordering the road on either side, making it dark, and through their swiftly passing boles the level country stretched to the paler horizon like a sea. And as he rode, he sat in judgment in his thoughts on those dead levels and the people who lived in them.