“Not a word, sir. We were like being in prison till we managed to creep out; and then after a bit of a talk among us non-coms, as were left, we determined, as our officers were gone, to come and try and find you, sir.”
“Then you were kept locked in the barracks?”
“Yes, sir; and if any of us showed a head, it was made a mark for a bullet. But we could hear all that was going on. One of them sounded boot and saddle as well ’most as little Dick.”
“Nay!” cried a boyish voice from the darkness.
“Well, tidy enough; and then we could hear them bringing out the horses, and limbering up and forming up in the barrack yard, sir, till I could bear it no longer, and I risked the bullets so as to get a peep now and then; and I did till, with everything in order, and the ammunition chests and waggons crammed, they rode out of the yard, with the people yelling and tom-tomming like mad.”
“But who—who did all this? The sepoys of the native regiment?”
“No, sir,” cried the sergeant.
“Then who did?”
“The syces, sir.”
“What?”