"What is it?" asked Major Warrener, who was one of the group in the veranda.
"Dispatch for the colonel, Sahib."
The colonel, who was sitting next to the major, held out his hand for the message, and was rising, when Major Warrener said:
"Don't move, colonel; boy, bring a candle."
The servant brought it: the colonel opened the envelope and glanced at the dispatch. He uttered an exclamation which was half a groan, half a cry.
"Good Heaven! what is the matter, colonel?"
"The native troops at Meerut have mutinied, have murdered their officers and all the European men, women, and children they could find, and are marching upon Delhi. Look after your regiment."
A low cry broke from the major. This was indeed awful news, and for a moment the two men sat half-stunned at the calamity, while the sound of music and merry talk came in through the open window like a mockery on their ears.
"Let us take a turn in the compound," said the major, "where no one can hear us."
For half an hour they walked up and down the garden. There could be no doubt about the truth of the news, for it was an official telegram from the adjutant at Meerut; and as to the extent of the misfortune, it was terrible.