cold northern moon, the officers were playing billiards in the
mud-walled club-house, when orders came to them that they were to go
on parade at once for a night-drill. They grumbled, and went to turn
out their men--a hundred English troops, let us say, two hundred
Goorkhas, and about a hundred cavalry of the finest native cavalry in
the world.

When they were on the parade-ground, it was explained to them in
whispers that they must set off at once across the hills to Bersund.
The English troops were to post themselves round the hills at the
side of the valley; the Goorkhas would command the gorge and the
death-trap, and the cavalry would fetch a long march round and get to
the back of the circle of hills, whence, if there were any
difficulty, they could charge down on the Mullah's men. But orders
were very strict that there should be no fighting and no noise. They
were to return in the morning with every round of ammunition intact,
and the Mullah and the thirteen outlaws bound in their midst. If they
were successful, no one would know or care anything about their work;
but failure meant probably a small border war, in which the Gulla
Kutta Mullah would pose as a popular leader against a big bullying
power, instead of a common border murderer.

Then there was silence, broken only by the clicking of the compass
needles and snapping of watch-cases, as the heads of columns compared
bearings and made appointments for the rendezvous. Five minutes later
the parade-ground was empty; the green coats of the Goorkhas and the
overcoats of the English troops had faded into the darkness, and the
cavalry were cantering away in the face of a blinding drizzle.

What the Goorkhas and the English did will be seen later on. The heavy