“He was a born cad,” said Paterson, “and deserved the same fate as Pir Baksh.”
“I don’t agree with you,” said Ted. “I think there’s some good in him.”
“Precious little. But I haven’t time to argue; I must make a strategical retirement. See you to-morrow.”
After Alec’s departure Claude and Ted found their way to the roof of the Alambagh, where were one or two officers whom they did not know. Over the expanse of wooded plain they caught glimpses of the mosques and minarets and gilded spires of Lucknow, rearing their heads above the abundant foliage of the parks and great gardens. The city seemed to stretch as far as the eye could reach, and they both experienced a curious thrill as they gazed thereat.
“And that’s where Sir Henry Lawrence died, and where Outram and Havelock are now,” observed Ted, almost in a whisper.
“Eighty-seven days they held out before Havelock got through,” Claude reflected aloud. “It was a grand defence. I wonder whereabouts the Residency is?”
“Over there, due north,” said a voice beside them.
“Thank you!” Claude replied; and they looked at the speaker, a clean-shaven man with hair inclined to wave, attired in a dress that seemed singularly out of place there, even among so great a variety of uniforms. He wore a blue frock-coat, and his white trousers were unstrapped; there was a white cover to his cap, and hunting-spurs adorned his shoes.
“Where are you youngsters from?” he asked.
“Delhi,” Ted replied. “We’ve just arrived with some Irregular Horse.”