"To prevent the white ants from eating it up; and I was once at a dancing party in Trincomalee when, from the extreme humidity of climate, the piano—one of Broadwood's best—went all to pieces, like a house of cards; so up here, at Cabul, we can't say what might happen."
"Have you seen the account in an English paper of the late skirmish with Nott's people at Candahar, and the queer story about the wounded being carried off?" asked General Trecarrel.
"No," replied Burgoyne; "what was it? Something extremely 'verdant,' of course, if it referred to India."
"Exactly. General Nott reported that he had thirty rank and file killed, but thrice that number wounded, were all carried off by dhooleys to the hills; on which event the editor expresses his horror in having to record that the savage tribe, known as the Dhooleys, swooped down from their native mountains and bore away the helpless wounded in their remorseless clutches!"
Dhooleys, being simply palanquins or litters, the Indian reader may imagine—as a little fun goes a long way when "up country"—how the mistake was laughed at, and how it made old Elphinstone laugh so severely, that all became seriously alarmed lest a catastrophe might occur; but ere long his dhooley was announced, and the party began to disperse; and Denzil, the last to leave, lingered a moment behind his two friends.
"The band—you have heard—plays at two to-morrow," said Rose, in low voice.
There was a fleet glance exchanged, a swift, soft pressure of the slender fingers, and in these words an appointment—an assignation—was made, causing Denzil's heart to beat wildly with joy as he hurried after Waller and Polwhele, full of dread lest they should have discovered his secret understanding with Rose and proceed to rally him thereon. As it was, he did not escape; for as they walked leisurely towards their quarters in the fort, Waller began thus.
"I have been dying for a quiet cigar! By the way, what does some poetical fellow (Byron, is it?) say—that love is of man's life a thing apart—but woman's whole existence? I don't know the truth of the statement; but anyhow, flirtation or man-slaying is a part of the 'existence' of Rose Trecarrel; so, look alive, Denzil, my boy, or you'll have but a poor chance, if the order to move down on Jellalabad don't come soon. It is all very well for subs to be spooney; but rather absurd for one to be entertaining 'views,' you know."
"You seemed soft enough on her sister, at all events," retorted Denzil, angrily.
"It is a maxim of mine," replied Waller, caressing his fly-away whiskers alternately, "that 'a little bit of tenderness is never misplaced, so long as the object is young, pretty, and, still more than all, disposed for it.' But, Denzil Devereaux, that girl amuses herself with you, and orders you about, as if you were a Maltese terrier, a poodle, or a sepoy."