"Well, old sport, if we can manage to stick it with our forty, we shall deserve at least a line or two in history."
"Skittles! I'd give a good deal not to be mentioned in your history!"
"'One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name.'"
"D'you call this glorious?"
"Don't you? I don't mean that it's glorious to lick a crowd of heathens, but I do think it's a fine thing to have been able to win the confidence of our forty men."
"So it is, and it will be a finer thing to show that we deserve it."
The day passed; dusk fell. The arrangements for the night were as before. Royce took the first watch, with half the garrison.
Challis, leaving him at his post on the north-east bastion, made his way along the passages that separated the several chambers of the building, towards his quarters, picking his way carefully in order not to trip over the fallen brick and other debris that strewed the floor.
Turning a corner, he saw in the half-light, a little way ahead, the figure of a negro cross his path from left to right. At first he thought it was John or Kulana, the only men who might have any reason to be in the neighbourhood of the white men's quarters. John looked after the food, which had been placed in an adjacent chamber for security; Kulana acted as body servant.
But it immediately occurred to Challis that neither of the men had any business there at this hour. Then he remembered that John was actually on duty with Royce. Was it possible that some other member of the party was making a private raid on the stores?