"Hai! The sahib will not leave the wounded."
"He can hold out?"
"Who shall say? The sahib has little food, and the water of the well in the tower is foul. The sahib will assuredly fight as long as he has one cartridge left in his revolver; then.... It is written, sahib; but the huzurs know how to die."
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Lawrence. "Can't he send for help?"
"The nearest post is a hundred miles away, sahib. There would not be time. In one day more, or perhaps two, all the food will be gone. No help could come to him for a week--no force strong enough to drive away the dogs that beset him."
"Why did he think we could escape, then?"
"Because the road is still open, sahib. The tribes are not yet moving towards the frontier, and the hill-tower is far to the west of the road. If the sahibs start at once there is just a chance that they may save themselves--as one leaves a house before the flood comes up and washes it away."
The boys felt overwhelmed by this climax to their embarrassments. There was no certainty that they could reach the nearest British post before the tide of invasion had begun to flow. The way might already be blocked by hordes of tribesmen gathering strength for their swoop upon the Punjab--an adventure which, utterly absurd as it seemed, and foredoomed to disaster, would work havoc on the frontier until it was crushed by the might of the Imperial power. They saw themselves shut up as in a trap between the 20,000 men on the north, and the innumerable host which the scent of plunder would attract to the Afghans' banner.
"We shall have to stick it now, in any case," said Bob to Lawrence. "Khansaman, take Ganda Singh to Gur Buksh: he will find him quarters. Then go to bed. I will ring for you if I want you."
When the two men were gone, Bob threw himself into a chair.