The soldiers lined up to march. My head was swimming, but all thoughts
of my own plight were dispelled by an incident which was as unexpected
as it was sudden. At the command "March" one of the two Indian students,
positive that he was now going to his doom, staggered. I caught him as
he fell. He dropped limply to the ground, half-dead with fright, and
with his face a sickly green.

"Are we going to be shot? Are we going to be shot?" he wailed
agonisedly.

He clutched the sleeve of a soldier, who, looking down and evidently
understanding English, motioned negatively. Then he added as an
afterthought, "Not now!"

While his negative head-shake revived my drooping spirits, his words
afterwards sent them to zero once more. I hardly knew whether to feel
relieved or otherwise. It would have been far better had the soldier
curbed his tongue, because his final words kept us on the rack of
suspense.

We were hustled out of the room. As we passed out I glanced at the
clock. It was just nine o'clock--Tuesday morning, August 4. I shall
never forget the day nor the hour. Like sheep we were driven and rushed
downstairs, the guards assisting our faltering steps with sundry rifle
prods and knocks. We tramped corridors, which seemed to be interminable,
and at last came to a ponderous iron gate. Here we were halted, and the
military guard handed us over to the gaolers. We passed through the
gates, which closed with a soul-smashing, reverberating bang.