“Well,” said the Major, “our little citadel will hold us all, and when the last cartridges are fired we can make such a breast-work of bayonets as I don’t think, in spite of their spears, these Malay scoundrels will pass.”
“We shall do our best, I am sure,” said the Resident quietly. “But what do you make of this explosion?”
“Ruin,” said the Major bitterly.
“No, no; I mean, what could have caused it? You have all your rules—no fire is ever allowed to approach.”
“Ah yes, to be sure,” said the Major sharply, “what could have caused it?” and he looked round from one to the other. “I have been so wrapped up in the consequences that it has never occurred to me to think of the cause. We could have no enemy within the camp.”
“Look here,” said Archie to the Doctor; “one of these fellows is coming to say that the more they throw on earth the more the wood blazes up.—What is it?” he continued, to the shovel-bearing private, who now joined them, his streaming and blackened face showing plainly in the bright light.
“We’ve just come upon a wounded man, sir.”
“Why didn’t you bring him in?” said Archie sharply.
“I don’t mean only wounded, sir. He’s all black and burnt. Seems as if the blow-up had sent him ever so far away, and he’s lying yonder amongst the stripped trees.”
“Eh? What’s that?” said the Major excitedly. “Not one of my lads?”