The Warreners listened with pale faces as their father, on his return from
the orderly-room, where the news had been discussed, told them the sad
story.

"There is nothing to be done, I suppose, papa?" Ned said gently.

"No, my boy; we are in the hands of God. We must wait now for what may
come. At present the regiment professes its fidelity, and has now
volunteered to march against the mutineers. The colonel believes them, so
do some of the others; I do not; it may be that the men mean what they say
at present, but we know that emissaries come and go, and every fresh
rising will be an incentive to them. It is no use blinking the truth,
dear; we are like men standing on a loaded mine which may at any moment
explode. I have been thinking, indeed for the last week I have done
nothing but think, what is best to be done. If the mutiny breaks out at
night or at any time when we are not on parade, we have agreed that all
the whites shall make at once for Mr. Thompson's house. It is the
strongest of any of the residences--for there would of course be no
getting to the messhouse--and then we will sell our lives as dearly as we
may. If it happens when we are on parade, defense by the rest of the
residents would be useless. There are but six civilians, with you two
boys--for we have counted you--eight. Probably but few of you could gain
Thompson's house in time; and if all did, your number would be too small
to defend it. There remains then nothing but flight. The rising will most
likely take place on parade. The residents have agreed that each day they
will, on some excuses or other, have their traps at their door at that
hour, so that at the sound of the first shot fired they may jump in and
drive off."

"But, you, papa?" Kate asked.