“Still they may be conquered by numbers; and we have numbers, your Highness.”
“True, true; and we will send legions against them to stop their advance. But how about Renaud? What is his strength?”
“He is at the head of the Madras Fusiliers, but their number is not great.”
“The Madras Fusiliers!” echoed the Nana, while a look of fear passed across his face, for he knew that this regiment was celebrated throughout India. It was evident that some of the best troops were coming against him. His own troops only mustered about ten thousand strong, horse and foot, and when he had spoken of hurling legions against the advancing foe his mind was running upon the hundreds of thousands of natives who peopled the city and the villages. But what could the untrained hordes do against the very flower of England’s Indian army? It seemed to him now as if the dream was to be realised, and that the meshes were tightening around him. He paced up and down again, his eyes bent upon the ground.
“Your Highness is troubled,” Jewan observed.
“I am troubled, for I see that unless the march of these British is checked they will very soon be in our city.”
“But we must check them.”
“Must, forsooth, is easily said. But how are we to check them?”
“We have troops and guns. Our troops can fight, and our guns can speak.”