No one answered at first. Every face was gloomy. At last a grey-haired captain of artillery spoke his mind in broken sentences:
"Never do—have to ride through a half-dozen sneaking tribes—Pango Dooni, rank robber—steal like a barrack cat—besides, no man could get there. Better stay where we are and fight it out till help comes."
"Help!" said Cumner bitterly. "We might wait six months before a man- of-war put in. The danger is a matter of hours. A hundred men, and a score of niggers—what would that be against thirty thousand natives?"
"Pango Dooni is as likely to butcher us as the Dakoon," said McDermot, the captain of artillery. Every man in the garrison had killed at least one of Pango Dooni's men, and every man of them was known from the Kimar Gate to the Neck of Baroob, where Pango Dooni lived and ruled.
The Colonel was not to be moved. "I'd ride the ninety miles myself, if my place weren't here—no, don't think I doubt you, for I know you all! But consider the nest of murderers that'll be let loose here when the Dakoon dies. Better a strong robber with a strong robber's honour to perch there in the Palace, than Boonda Broke and his cut-throats—"
"Honour—honour?—Pango Dooni!" broke out McDermot the gunner scornfully.
"I know the man," said the Governor gruffly; "I know the man, I tell you, and I'd take his word for ten thousand pounds, or a thousand head of cattle. Is there any of you will ride to the Neck of Baroob for me? For one it must be, and no more—we can spare scarce that, God knows!" he added sadly. "The women and children—"
"I will go," said a voice behind them all; and Cumner's Son stepped forward. "I will go, if I may ride the big sorrel from the Dakoon's stud."
The Colonel swung round in his chair and stared mutely at the lad. He was only eighteen years old, but of good stature, well-knit, and straight as a sapling.
Seeing that no one answered him, but sat and stared incredulously, he laughed a little, frankly and boyishly. "The kris of Boonda Broke is for the hearts of every one of us," said he. "He may throw it soon— to-night—to-morrow. No man can leave here—all are needed; but a boy can ride; he is light in the saddle, and he may pass where a man would be caught in a rain of bullets. I have ridden the sorrel of the Dakoon often; he has pressed it on me; I will go to the master of his stud, and I will ride to the Neck of Baroob."