poor old fellow; he’s dead now, and can’t ask his old, well-known question.”
“What was it, Curtis? What did he ask, and who was he?”
“Well, wait till I have lit this cigar, and I’ll tell you,” answered Curtis. “We have an hour yet before the moon gets low, and those black palkywallers are making such a row.”
The cigar was lighted, the brandy-and-water carefully mixed and placed on an adjoining table within reach, and comfortably settling himself on his seat, Lieutenant Curtis began his history.
“On the top of yonder sugar-loaf hill, in the centre of Bellary Fort, a prisoner was confined, and the daily duty of the officer of the guard was to visit him. He was an old, worn-out man, whose hair had grown grey a captive, and I can tell you, Harris, it was no joke to have to plod up the steps cut in the face of the rock every morning, to ask the old man the stereotyped question, ‘Did he want anything?’
“He had been a sovereign of some petty State, and our people wanted the land, so they took it, and to keep its former owner quiet, confined him to the top of yon granite rock; so daily the subaltern on guard mounted the steps, and asked the usual question, every time receiving the same reply,—
“‘Yes, I want my liberty and the land you stole from me, nothing else!’”
“And did he ever get it?” asked Harris.
“He very nearly did,” replied Captain Hughes. “But go on with your tale, Curtis.”
The officer addressed took a steady pull at the brandy pawnee by his side, puffed out a heavy cloud of smoke, and continued—
“One day the old man received by stealth a considerable sum of money, and with this and the promise of more he succeeded in bribing an officer of a native regiment, then doing duty with us in the fort. The officer went up with his palky several times pretexting illness, and no notice was taken of it; at last, one day the bearers, who had been also well paid, felt by the weight that the prisoner was inside. They took up the palky, which had been standing near the gate, and lazily followed by the sick officer, who inspected the sergeant’s guard as he passed, took their way down.
“It was well contrived, but old Sergeant Flack of ours noticed the weight of the empty palky, and as soon as he had turned in his guard, went to his prisoner’s quarters to find the bird flown.
“The subaltern and the palanquin with its bearers parted company at the foot of the hill, he taking his way to the main guard, a richer, but dishonoured man; the poor prisoner, his heart beating wildly at the now sure prospect of liberty, was borne along towards the gates of the fort. An armed party of his former subjects waited him; so once outside and mounted he would be safe, and if it had not been for Flack he would have been.
“Just as he neared the gate, the old Sergeant came up breathless, and the loud cry of ‘Guard, turn out!’ was heard, while the next moment the palanquin was surrounded by the bayonets of our fellows, and the poor grey-headed Rajah found himself half-an-hour later once more seated in the quarters assigned him on the top of the rock.”
“Poor fellow! and what became of him?” asked Harris.
“He never again made an attempt to escape, but, native-like, bowed submissively to his fate, and every morning gave the reply I have already repeated to the officer of the guard. It was his only revenge, and until he died this little solace seemed agreeable to him.”
“And the officer who connived at the escape?” asked Curtis.
“It could never be proved against him,” answered the other. “The old Rajah always sternly denied having had any collusion with him. The bearers had bolted in the confusion; and though he was sent down to Madras and tried by court-martial, he was not convicted, for there was no proof.”
“Ay, but he resigned his commission at once, left for England, and from a poor man, rose into one of fair moderate means,” remarked Captain Hughes. “But see, the moon is low now, your fellow has picketed the sheep, and if we are to do any good, silence must be the order of the night.”
A tiger had lately committed some ravages within the lines of the 150th, and the night before had actually entered the mess-compound of the corps. It was a man-eater, too, and when once these ferocious animals take to preying on the human species, they acquire a love for the food, which never leaves them. Lieutenant Curtis and the Ensign had volunteered to kill it, while Captain Hughes, who was to start for Madras on two years’ leave, had gladly joined the party.
Silence now fell on the watchers, the moonlight grew more and more feeble, the red ends of the cigars gleamed under the shadow of the verandah, in one corner of which stood the Captain’s palanquin, its bearers thrown down on the chenam floor beside it, sleeping soundly. The stars were shining brightly, and the cries of the hyenas on the plain beyond were answered from time to time by the bleat of the sheep, picketed in the centre of the yard. Hour passed after hour, and the moon had quite disappeared. The youngest of the party, unused to the long watch, had fallen fast asleep, and his head being thrown back in an uneasy position, was snoring loudly.
“Confound that fellow, he is enough to frighten a Bengal tiger; just prod him up, Hughes, will you!” said Curtis, in an undertone.
The Ensign’s rifle leaned against one of the pillars of the verandah. Those of the other two lay across their knees, and Hughes, giving two or three pokes with the muzzle of his, between the sleeping lad’s ribs, tried to wake him. Worn out with the heat and watching, the boy muttered some unintelligible words, and, turning, was again fast asleep in a moment.
“And you don’t mean to go to England?” continued Curtis, speaking in a guarded tone.
“No, I don’t,” returned Hughes, in the same low voice. “You and I, Curtis, are the crack shots of the regiment, and my rifle at least shall be heard on the plains and by the rivers of South Africa.”
“How I wish I could start with you, old fellow,” said Curtis, with a sigh.
“How I wish you could; but it’s no use wishing, Curtis. You have had so much leave of late that you can’t ask, and if you did, your application would not be forwarded.”
“No, I suppose not. Colonel Desmond’s a good fellow; but I should not like to ask him. Have you any one you know in South Africa?”
“Yes, I’ve a relation who has been for many years Government Agent on the Zulu frontier, and he promises me a fit out, and a letter to Panda, the King of the Zulus.”
“Won’t you have splendid elephant hunting, and, may be, join again with a Kaffir wife.”
Hughes laughed. “How that sheep bleats; and hush, Curtis—there’s a skurry among the jackals. Do you hear? Hush!”
Hardly had he spoken when the sharp click of the rifle-locks was heard, as their owners brought them to full cock, and almost at the same moment, with a loud growl, a dark, massive form topped the low wall, and with one blow of his powerful fore-arm the man-eater struck down its prey. The tiger turned to fly, carrying with it the dead sheep, but the rope by which it was tied to the stake stopped it. With a low growl of anger the brute glanced round, as though not understanding the reason of the check. The starlight streamed over his painted hide, and the simultaneous reports of the two rifles rang out on the air. Hard hit, the tiger turned, dashed at the wall, clearing it once more, but as he did so received the contents of the two remaining barrels of the rifles, disappearing with a howl of pain and rage.
Harris, worn out by heat he was little accustomed to, had dropped into that dead sleep which invariably overpowers Europeans not broken to an Indian climate. Awoke suddenly by the growl of the tiger, closely followed by the reports of the rifles, it took him some seconds to realise the situation. Even then his faculties seemed confused, for, seizing his rifle, he dashed, without speaking a word, through the gate, in the low compound wall, followed by the loud laughter of his comrades.
“Hallo! stop, you sleepy hunter of tigers!” shouted Curtis, as soon as he could speak for laughter. A fierce growl from the other side of the compound was heard, a long snarl of mingled anger and pain dying away into