a million underdogs had turned against their masters. A hundred
factions and as many more religions, all had one common end in view--
to loot. All were agreed on one thing--that the first stage of the
game must be to turn Jailpore and, after Jailpore, India, into a
charnel-house.

Around and around the burning palace the mob screamed and swept
uncontrolled. Moslem looted Hindu, and Hindu Moslem. Armed sepoys,
with the blood of their British officers fresh-soaked on their British
uniforms, and the unspent pay of "John Company" still jingling in
their pockets, danced weird, wild devil-dances through the streets,
clearing their way, when they saw fit, with cold steel or wanton volleys.
Women screamed. Caste looted caste. Loose horses galloped madly
through the streets. Here and there a pitched battle raged, where
a merchant who had wealth had also courage, and apprentices and friends
to help him defend his store.

And through all the din and clamor, under and above the howling and
the volleys and the roar of flames, sounded the steady thumping of
the sacred war-drums. The whole sky glowed red. The Indian night
was scorched and smoked and lit by arson. Hell screamed with the
cooking of red mutiny, and throbbed with the thunder of the sacred
temple-drums. And that was only one of the hells, and a small one.
India glowed red that night from end to end!

Juggut Khan, free-lance Rajput and gentleman of fortune, had ridden
out of that caldron of Jailpore. His house was a heap of glowing
ashes, and his goods were tossed for and distributed among a company.
But his mark lay indelibly impressed upon the town. There were three
European women and a child who were nowhere to be found; and there