blossoms, cast a sensuous elusive perfume to the vagrant breeze. Once
a gigantic jamon stretched its gnarled arms across the roadway as if a
devilfish held poised his tentacles to snatch from the brake its
occupants.

When they had swung in to the Sirdar's bungalow and clambered down from
the brake, Elizabeth said: "If you don't mind, General Baptiste, I'll
just drift around amongst these beautiful roses while you men have your
pegs. No, I don't care for tea," she said, in answer to his
suggestion. There was a mirthless smile on her lips as she added: "I'm
like Captain Barlow, I like the rose."

The three men sat on the verandah while a servant brought
brandy-and-soda, and Nana Sahib, with a restless perversity akin to the
torturing proclivity of a Hindu was quizzing the Frenchman about his
recruits.

"You'll find them no good," he assured Baptiste--"rebellious cusses,
worthless thieves. My Moslem friend, the King of Oudh, tried them out.
He got up a regiment of them--Budhuks, Bagrees--all sorts; it was named
the Wolf Regiment--that was the only clever thing about it, the name.
They stripped the uniforms from the backs of the officers sent to drill
them and kicked them out of camp; said the officers put on swank;
wouldn't clean their own horses and weapons, same as the other men."

Then he switched the torture--made it more acute; wanted to know what
Sirdar Baptiste had got them for.

The Frenchman fumed inwardly. Nana Sahib was at the bottom of the
whole murderous scheme, and here, like holding a match over a keg of