"This is a man indeed!"
Rain showed him the courtyard of the fort, full of poor ragged women and children, Lady Sale, the British General's wife, Lady McNaughten, the wives of many soldiers. The women of the fallen government and the dead army were all rescued, they and their children, by the spy who sat asleep there in the gateway.
"Listen!" said Rain, as they stood on the wall of the fort. Somewhere, far away in the heat haze, there was a tiny broken thread of music. First one and then another, the women and the children stirred in their sleep, awakened in sudden terror, then sat up, wondering, to listen, straining to catch the distant sound again, for an old, old Scottish melody rang softly in the cañons, "Oh, but ye've been lang a-comin'!"
Now they were all afoot, swarming across the courtyard to the gate. Lady McNaughten, rousing the spy, cried, "Major Pottinger, don't you hear? Oh, can't you hear? A band is playing somewhere!"
Pottinger rose to his feet, swaying with weariness as he stared down the pass, intent to catch the sound; and then he also heard.
"Oh, but ye've been lang a-comin'!"
Pottinger called his General Staff about him, giving brisk orders. His bugler was sounding the "Alert," then the "Assembly," and trumpet after trumpet took the echo far off into the haze.
Then the head of the British relief column came swinging round a shoulder of the cliffs, and Lady Sale ran, shouting, to join her husband.
Rain cried a little, then brushed her eyes with her sleeve. "Finished," she said. "I have worked for our dear spy three snows now, and he needs no more help." She turned upon her pupil.
"And you?" Rising Wolf felt as though Rain's eyes were burning him. "Your soul," she said, "has come alive so quickly."