"Firing. Poor devils! We shall be the next. Who's at the bottom of this, Tristram?"
"Ayeshi—Barclay—what's it matter? Do something!"
They looked at each other. Something like a smile passed over their faces. They were very calm—very quiet. The men and women were equally aware that there was not much they could do. They were cut off by hundreds of miles from any real assistance. It would have taken an hour at least to have gathered the rest of Gaya together and prepared a defence that might suggest even a fighting chance. As it was, they had perhaps a few minutes—if one or two of them had a weapon in his possession it would be a great piece of luck. The thought of a five-chambered revolver—three chambers empty—which he happened to have slipped into the pocket of his military overcoat some days back—gave Compton such an absurd thrill of satisfaction that he laughed.
"We shall have to shy the spoons at 'em!" he said.
Mrs. Boucicault brushed the fluffy grey hair from her forehead.
"My husband has a few guns in his rack," she said quietly. "He used them for hunting, but they might do. I think there are some cartridges, too—I don't know—we might look."
"Better than nothing." Armstrong began to direct, heavily but systematically. "Compton, get the servants together. Shut them up and see that they don't get a chance to communicate with any one outside. Five of you had better keep a lookout. The rest stay here. It would be better to go on as though nothing had happened. We shall defend this side of the house—this room, in fact. We're too few for anything more. Mrs. Boucicault, please lead the way——"
He was obeyed. The women reseated themselves. Mary Compton began to talk. Mrs. Brabazone took up the tangled thread of her story and unravelled it laboriously. The dead white tablecloth and the brilliant colours of the flowers made their faces look vivid.
"It's like old times," Mrs. Compton declared. "I expect it's really a blessing in disguise. If we didn't have these periodical shake-ups our livers would never work at all. We do eat such dreadfully unhealthy things. Somebody pass me the almonds. Let's have our desserts now as well as in the hereafter!"
It was an old and rather feeble jest, but it served its purpose. The Simla woman laughed heartily. Mrs. Brabazone grumbled.