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Acquisitions Editor: Brian Brown
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Marketing Manager: Julie Sikora
Production Project Manager: David Saltzberg
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Manufacturing Coordinator: Beth Welsh
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Fourth edition

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Pagnano, Mark W., editor. | Hanssen, Arlen D., editor.

Title: Knee arthroplasty / [edited by] Mark Pagnano, Arlen Hanssen.
Other titles: Knee arthroplasty (Lotke) | Master techniques in orthopaedic surgery.
Description: 4e. | Philadelphia: Wolters Kluwer, [2019] | Series: Master techniques
in orthopaedic surgery | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018043031 | eISBN 9781496360649
Subjects: | MESH: Arthroplasty, Replacement, Knee—methods | Knee—surgery |
Postoperative Complications—prevention & control | Reoperation—methods
Classification: LCC RD561 | NLM WE 874 | DDC 617.5/82059—dc23 LC record
available at [Link]

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This book is dedicated to our mentors and colleagues whose
commitment to outstanding patient care, education, and research
has advanced the field of knee replacement surgery over the past 30
years. It is our sincere hope that the collective knowledge in this
volume proves useful to surgeons and is beneficial to patients.
Chapter 4 Exposing the Revision Total Knee Arthroplasty:
Patellar Inversion Method
Thomas K. Fehring

Video 1: Patellar Inversion Method: Previous Skin Incisions

Video 2: Range of Motion Part 1
Video 3: Range of Motion Part 2
Video 4: Range of Motion Part 3
Video 5: Range of Motion Part 5

Chapter 31 Opening-Wedge Proximal Tibial Osteotomy

Michael P. O’Malley, Patrick J. Reardon, Ayoosh Pareek,
Aaron J. Krych, and Michael J. Stuart

Video 1: Medial Opening Wedge Proximal Tibial Osteotomy

Chapter 32 Distal Femoral Osteotomy

Michael P. O’Malley, Ayoosh Pareek, Patrick J. Reardon,
Michael J. Stuart, and Aaron J. Krych

Video 1: Lateral Opening Wedge Distal Femoral Osteotomy

Chapter 34 Extensor Mechanism Allograft

Scott M. Sporer

Video 1: Extensor Mechanism Allograft

Chapter 36 Arthrodesis for the Failed Total Knee
Arthroplasty
Luis Pudilo and Stephen J. Incavo

Video 1: Arthrodesis for Failed Total Knee Arthroplasty: Surgical

technique using a long antegrade intramedullary nail
Video 2: Knee Fusion Take Down and Conversion to Revision
Total Knee Arthroplasty: Surgical Technique
Matthew P. Abdel, MD
Associate Professor
Department of Orthopedic Surgery
College of Medicine
Consultant
Department of Orthopedic Surgery
Mayo Clinic
Rochester, Minnesota

David Backstein, MD, MEd, FRCSC

Associate Professor
Head
Granovsky Gluskin Division of Orthopaedics
Clinical Lead
Musculoskeletal Centre of Excellence
Sinai Health System
University of Toronto
Toronto, Ontario

Jeffrey J. Barry, MD
Assistant Professor
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
University of California, San Francisco
San Francisco, California

Johan Bellemans, MD, PhD

Professor
Department of Orthopaedics and Traumatology
Knee Surgery and Sports Orthopaedics
University Hasselt
ZOL Hospitals Genk
ArthroClinic Leuven
Genk, Belgium

Keith R. Berend, M.D.

Associate, Joint Implant Surgeons, Inc.
Clinical Assistant Professor
Department of Orthopaedics
The Ohio State University
Mount Carmel Health System
New Albany, Ohio

Michael E. Berend, MD
Orthopedic Surgeon
Midwest Center for Joint Replacement
Midwest Specialty Surgery Center
Indianapolis, Indiana

Daniel J. Berry, MD
L.Z. Gund Professor
Department of Orthopedic Surgery
Mayo Clinic
Rochester, Minnesota

Hayden N. Box, MD
Resident
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
University of Texas Southwestern Medical Center
Dallas, Texas

Timothy S. Brown, MD
Assistant Professor
Department of Orthopedics and Rehabilitation
University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics
Iowa City, Iowa

James A. Browne, MD
Associate Professor
Vice Chair and Division Head of Adult Reconstruction
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
University of Virginia Medical Center
Charlottesville, Virginia

Alberto V. Carli, MD, MSc, FRCSC

Orthopedic Surgeon
Adult Reconstruction and Joint Replacement Division
Hospital for Special Surgery
New York, New York

Joshua L. Carter, MD
Orthopedic Surgeon
Midwest Center for Joint Replacement
Indianapolis, Indiana

Alexander B. Christ, MD
Fellow
Adult Reconstruction and Joint Replacement Service
Hospital for Special Surgery
New York, New York

Henry D. Clarke, MD
Consultant
Department of Orthopedic Surgery
Mayo Clinic
Professor of Orthopedics
Mayo Clinic College of Medicine
Rochester, Minnesota

Umberto Cottino, MD
Orthopedic Surgeon
Department of Orthopaedics and Traumatology
University of Torino
Mauriziano “Umberto I” Hospital
Torino, Italy

Casey M. deDeugd, MD
Orthopedic Surgery Resident
Department of Orthopedic Surgery
Mayo Clinic
Rochester, Minnesota

Craig J. Della Valle, MD

Aaron G. Rosenberg Endowed Professor of Orthopaedic Surgery
Chief
Division of Adult Reconstructive Surgery
Rush University Medical Center
Chicago, Illinois

Douglas A. Dennis, MD
Adjunct Professor
Department of Biomedical Engineering
University of Tennessee
Knoxville, Tennesse
Orthopedic Surgeon
Colorado Joint Replacement
Adjunct Professor of Bioengineering
Department of Mechanical and Materials Engineering
Denver University
Assistant Clinical Professor
Department of Orthopaedics
University of Colorado School of Medicine
Denver, Colorado

Michael J. Dunbar, MD, FRCSC, PhD, FCAHS

Professor
Department of Surgery
Dalhousie University
QE II Chair in Arthroplasty Outcomes
Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada

Bradley S. Ellison, MD
Orthopedic Surgeon
OrthoCarolina
Concord, North Carolina

Thomas K. Fehring, MD
Co-Director OrthoCarolina Hip & Knee Center
OrthoCarolina
Charlotte, North Carolina

Michael A. Flierl, MD
Assistant Professor
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
Oakland University William Beaumont
Royal Oak, Michigan

Marcus C. Ford, MD
Clinical Instructor
Campbell Clinic Orthopaedics
University of Tennessee
Germantown, Tennessee

Steven B. Haas, MD
Chief of the Knee Service
John N. Insall Chair, Knee Surgery Hospital for Special Surgery
Professor Clinical Orthopedics
Weill Cornell Medical College
New York, New York

George Haidukewych, MD
Chairman
Orthopedic Surgery
Orlando Regional Medical Center
Orlando, Florida

Arlen D. Hanssen, MD
Professor of Orthopedic Surgery
Mayo Clinic College of Medicine and Science
Department of Orthopedic Surgery
Mayo Clinic
Rochester, Minnesota

David C. Holst, MD
Adult Reconstruction Fellow
Colorado Joint Replacement
Denver, Colorado
James L. Howard, MD, MSc, FRCSC
Associate Professor, Program Director
Division of Orthopaedic Surgery
Western University
University Hospital, London Health Sciences Centre
London, Ontario, Canada

Stephen J. Incavo, MD
Chief
Adult Reconstructive Surgery
Deputy Chairman
Department of Orthopedic Surgery
Houston Methodist Hospital
Professor of Clinical Orthopedic Surgery
Weill Cornell Medical College
Houston, Texas

Richard E. Jones, MD
Consultant
Orthopaedic Specialist
Professor of Orthopaedic Surgery
University of Texas Southwestern Medical Center
Dallas, Texas

Aaron J. Krych, MD
Professor of Orthopedic Surgery and Sports Medicine
Mayo Clinic
Rochester, Minnesota

Wesley G. Lackey
Orthopedic Surgeon
Midwest Center for Joint Replacement
Indianapolis, Indiana
Cameron K. Ledford, MD
Adult Lower Extremity Reconstruction Fellow
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
Mayo Clinic College of Medicine
Rochester, Minnesota

Adolph V. Lombardi, Jr, MD, FACS

President
Joint Implant Surgeons, Inc.
Clinical Assistant Professor
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
The Ohio State University Wexner Medical Center
Orthopaedic Surgeon
Mount Carmel Health System
New Albany, Ohio

William J. Long, MD, FRCSC

Director
ISK Institute Clinical Associate Professor
New York University Hospital for Joint Diseases
New York

Steven J. MacDonald, MD, FRCS(C)

J.C. Kennedy Professor and Chairman of Orthopaedic Surgery
Western University
University Hospital, London Health Sciences Centre
London, Ontario, Canada

Dean J. Marshall, DO
Orthopedic Surgeon
Spectrum Orthopaedics
North Canton, Ohio
R. Michael Meneghini, MD
Associate Professor
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
Indiana University School of Medicine
Indianapolis, Indiana
Director
Indiana University Hip and Knee Center
Fishers, Indiana

William M. Mihalko, MD PhD

J.R. Hyde Professor
Campbell Clinic Department of Orthopaedic Surgery and Biomedical
Engineering Joint Program Chair in Biomedical Engineering
University of Tennessee Campbell Clinic Orthopaedics
Memphis, TN

Arun B. Mullaji, MCh Orth, FRCSEd, MS Orth

Consultant Orthopedic Surgeon
Breach Candy Hospital
Director
Mullaji Knee Clinic
Mumbai, India

Douglas D. R. Naudie, MD, FRCSC

Associate Professor, Orthopaedic Surgery
Western University
Schulich School of Medicine
Site Chief, Department of Surgery
Site Chief, Division of Orthopaedic Surgery
Consultant Orthopaedic Surgeon
Joint Replacement Institute
London Health Sciences Center
University Hospital
London, Ontario, Canada
Charles L. Nelson, MD
Chief of Adult Reconstruction
Associate Professor of Orthopaedic Surgery, Perelman School of
Medicine
University of Pennsylvania
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Kamil T. Okroj, MD
Resident Physician
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
Thomas Jefferson University
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Michael P. O’Malley, MD, MS

Orthopedic Associates
Division of Spectrum Healthcare Partners
Orthopedic Sports Medicine Center
Portland, Maine

Mark W. Pagnano, MD
Professor of Orthopedic Surgery
Mayo Clinic College of Medicine and Science
Chairman
Department of Orthopedic Surgery
Mayo Clinic
Rochester, Minnesota

Ayoosh Pareek, MD
Resident Physician
Department of Orthopedic Surgery and Sports Medicine
Mayo Clinic
Rochester, Minnesota
Kevin I. Perry, MD
Assistant Professor
Department of Orthopedic Surgery
Mayo Clinic
Rochester, Minnesota

Luis Pulido, MD
Orthopaedic Surgeon, Joint Reconstruction
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
Houston Methodist Hospital
Texas Medical Center
Houston, Texas

Patrick J. Reardon, MD
Resident
Department of Orthopedic Surgery
Medical College of Wisconsin
Milwaukee, Wisconsin

C. Glen Richardson, MD, FRCSC, MSc

Associate Professor
Department of Surgery, Division Orthopaedics
Dalhousie University
Surgeon
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
Queen Elizabeth II Health Sciences Centre
Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada

Michael D. Ries, MD
Arthroplasty Fellowship Director
Reno Orthopaedic Clinic
Reno, Nevada
Professor Emeritus
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
University of California, San Francisco
San Francisco, California

Roberto Rossi, MD
Professor of Orthopaedics and Traumatology
Chairman of University Department of Orthopaedics and
Traumatology
Mauriziano Umberto I Hospital
Torino, Italy

Adam A. Sassoon, MD, MS

Associate Professor
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
University of California, Los Angeles
Santa Monica, California

Giles R. Scuderi, MD
Associate Clinical Professor of Orthopedic Surgery
Zucker School of Medicine at Hofstra/Northwell
Fellowship Director
Adult Reconstruction
Lenox Hill Hospital
Vice President
Orthopedic Service Line
Northwell Health
New York, New York

Gautam M. Shetty, MS Orth

Consultant
Joint Replacement Surgery
Breach Candy Hospital and Mullaji Knee Clinic
Mumbai, India
Rafael J. Sierra, MD
Professor of Orthopedic Surgery
Fellowship Director
Adult Reconstruction Surgery
Mayo Clinic
Rochester, Minnesota

Mark J. Spangehl, MD
Associate Professor of Orthopaedic Surgery
Mayo Clinic School of Medicine
Mayo Clinic
Phoenix, Arizona

Scott M. Sporer, MD, MS

Professor
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
Associate Professor Orthopaedic Surgery
RUSH University Medical Center
Chicago, Illinois
Co-Medical Director Joint Replacement Institute
Central Dupage Hospital
Winfield, Illinois

Bryan D. Springer, MD
Fellowship Director
OrthoCarolina Hip and Knee Center
Associate Professor
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
Atrium Health/Carolinas Medical Center
Charlotte, North Carolina

Ryan D. Stancil, MD, MPH

Resident Physician
Department of Orthopaedics and Sports Medicine
University of Washington
Seattle, Washington

Michael J. Stuart, MD
Professor
Department of Orthopedic Surgery
Chairman
Division of Sports Medicine
Mayo Clinic
Rochester, Minnesota

Michael J. Taunton, MD
Assistant Professor
Department of Orthopedic Surgery
Mayo Clinic
Rochester, Minnesota

Robert T. Trousdale, MD
Professor
Department of Orthopaedic Surgery
Mayo Clinic College of Medicine
Mayo Clinic Methodist Hospital
Rochester, Minnesota

Nathan J. Turnbull, MD
Orthopedic Surgeon
Florida Orthopaedic Associates
DeLand, Florida

Kelly G. Vince, MD
Consultant Orthopedic Surgeon
Department of Orthopedic Surgery
Northland District Health Board
Whangarei, New Zealand

Jesse Isaac Wolfstadt, MD, MSc, FRCSC

Assistant Professor
University of Toronto
Division of Orthopaedic Surgery
Sinai Health System
Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Thomas J. Wood, MD, FRCSC

Clinical Fellow
Department of Surgery (Orthopaedics)
University of Western Ontario
London Health Sciences Center
London, Ontario, Canada
 ince its inception in 1994, the Master Techniques in Orthopaedic
S Surgery series has become the gold standard for both physicians
in training and experienced surgeons. Its exceptional success may
be traced to the leadership of the original series editor, Roby
Thompson, whose clarity of thought and focused vision sought “to
provide direct, detailed access to techniques preferred by
orthopaedic surgeons who are recognized by their colleagues as
‘masters’ in their specialty,” as he stated in his series preface. It is
personally very rewarding to hear testimonials from both residents
and practicing orthopaedic surgeons on the value of these volumes
to their training and practice.
A key element of the success of the series is its format. The
effectiveness of the format is reflected by the fact that it is now
being replicated by others. An essential feature is the standardized
presentation of information replete with tips and pearls shared by
experts with years of experience. Abundant color photographs and
drawings guide the reader through the procedures step-by-step.
The second key to the success of the Master Techniques series
rests in the reputation and experience of our volume editors. The
editors are truly dedicated “masters” with a commitment to
sharetheir rich experience through these texts. We feel a great debt
of gratitude to them and a real responsibility to maintain and
enhance the reputation of the Master Techniques series that has
developedover the years. We are proud of the progress made in
formulating the third edition volumes and areparticularly pleased
with the expanded content of this series. Six new volumes will soon
be availablecovering topics that are exciting and relevant to a broad
cross-section of our profession. While weare in the process of
carefully expanding Master Techniques topics and editors, we are
committed tothe now-classic format.
The first of the new volumes is Relevant Surgical Exposures,
which I have had the honor of editing. The second new volume is
Essential Procedures in Pediatrics. Subsequent new topics to
beintroduced are Soft Tissue Reconstruction, Management of
Peripheral Nerve Dysfunction, Advanced Reconstructive Techniques
in the Joint, and finally Essential Procedures in Sports Medicine. The
full library thus will consist of 16 useful and relevant titles.
I am pleased to have accepted the position of series editor,
feeling so strongly about the value of this series to educate the
orthopaedic surgeon in the full array of expert surgical procedures.
The true worth of this endeavor will continue to be measured by the
ever-increasing success and critical acceptance of the series. I
remain indebted to Dr. Thompson for his inaugural vision and
leadership, as well as to the Master Techniques volume editors and
numerous contributors who have been true to the series style and
vision. As I indicated in the preface to the second edition of The Hip
volume, the words of William Mayo are especially relevant to
characterize the ultimate goal of this endeavor: “The best interest of
the patient is the only interest to be considered.” We are confident
that the information in the expanded Master Techniques offers the
surgeon an opportunity to realize the patient-centric view of our
surgical practice.
Bernard F. Morrey, MD
W
e offer a sincere thank-you to the master knee surgeons who
have contributed their knowledge and shared their expertise in
this volume.
We recognize the hard work of the publisher and staff including
Brian Brown, David Murphy, Jr., and Kayla Smull.
We appreciate the support provided to each of us by our families,
not just during this project but throughout our careers, and
recognize that we could not have accomplished what we have
without them.
VIDEO LIST

CONTRIBUTORS

SERIES PREFACE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PART I Surgical Approaches

CHAPTER 1
Medial Parapatellar Approach to Knee
Thomas J. Wood and Douglas D.R. Naudie

CHAPTER 2
Midvastus Approach to the Knee
Steven B. Haas, Alexander B. Christ, and Alberto V. Carli

CHAPTER 3
Subvastus Approach for Total Knee Arthroplasty
Mark W. Pagnano

CHAPTER 4
Exposing the Revision Total Knee Arthroplasty: Patellar Inversion
Method
Thomas K. Fehring
 PART II Principles in Primary Total Knee Arthroplasty

CHAPTER 5
Tibial Tubercle Osteotomy for Complex Total Knee
Cameron K. Ledford and Robert T. Trousdale

CHAPTER 6
Primary Total Knee Principles With Measured Resection Technique
Michael A. Flierl, Kamil T. Okroj, and Craig J. Della Valle

CHAPTER 7
Primary Total Knee Arthroplasty: Gap Balancing Technique
Rafael J. Sierra, Roberto Rossi, and Umberto Cottino

CHAPTER 8
Primary Total Knee Principles With a Kinematic Alignment
Technique
Michael J. Dunbar and C. Glen Richardson

CHAPTER 9
Primary Total Knee Principles With Custom Cutting Guide
Technique
Adolph V. Lombardi Jr and Dean J. Marshall

CHAPTER 10
Principles of Computer Navigation for Primary Total Knee
Arthroplasty
Arun B. Mullaji and Gautam M. Shetty

CHAPTER 11
Cruciate-Retaining Total Knee Tips and Tricks
Michael E. Berend, Wesley G. Lackey, and Joshua L. Carter

CHAPTER 12
Posterior Stabilized Total Knee Tips and Tricks
David C. Holst and Douglas A. Dennis
 PART III Complex Issues in Primary Total Knee
Arthroplasty

CHAPTER 13
Varus and Valgus Deformities
William J. Long and Giles R. Scuderi

CHAPTER 14
Genu Recurvatum in Total Knee Arthroplasty
Marcus C. Ford and William M. Mihalko

CHAPTER 15
Correction of Flexion Contractures in Total Knee Arthroplasty
Adolph V. Lombardi Jr, Keith R. Berend, and Bradley S. Ellison

CHAPTER 16
Total Knee Arthroplasty for the Ankylosed or Markedly Stiff Knee
James L. Howard

CHAPTER 17
Managing Patellar Problems in Primary and Revision Total Knee
Arthroplasty
Daniel J. Berry, Steven J. MacDonald, and Charles L. Nelson

CHAPTER 18
Varus-Valgus–Constrained Implants in Primary Total Knee
Arthroplasty
Michael J. Taunton

PART IV Revision Total Knee Arthroplasty

CHAPTER 19
Removal of a Well-Fixed Total Knee Arthroplasty
R. Michael Meneghini and Daniel J. Berry

CHAPTER 20
Revision Total Knee Principles and Techniques
Other documents randomly have
different content
military service as a make-shift; but, to a great extent, a guild,
following the profession of arms by hereditary custom from the
cradle to the grave.

Quick march! A woman, early astir, peered at the little procession

through the chink of a door, and whispered to an unseen companion
behind. What was she saying? What, by implication, would other
women, who peeped virtuously--women he knew--say of his present
occupation? That he was a coward to be guarding his comrades'
fetters? No doubt; since others with less right would say it too. All
the miserable, disreputable riff-raff, for instance, which had drifted in
from the neighborhood to see the show. The bazaar had been full of
it these three days past. Even the sweepers, pariahs, out-castes,
would snigger over the misfortunes of their betters--as those two
ahead were doubtless sniggering already as they drew aside from
their slave's work of sweeping the roadway, to let the tumbrils pass.
Drew aside with mock deference, leaving scantiest room for the
twice-born following them. So scant, indeed, that the outermost tip
of a reed broom, flourished in insolent salaam, touched the Rajput's
sleeve. It was the veriest brush, no more than a fly's wing could
have given; but the half-stifled cry from Soma's lips meant murder--
nothing less. His disciplined feet wavered, he gave a furtive glance
at his companions. Had they seen the insult? Could they use it
against him?

"Eyes front, there; forward!" came the order from behind, and he
pulled himself together by instinct and went on.

"Only three weeks longer, brother!" said that voice beside him
meaningly; and a dull rage rose in Soma's heart. So it had been
seen. It might be said of him, Soma, that he had tamely submitted
to a defiling touch. He did not look round at his officers this time.
They might hear if they chose, the future might hold what it chose.
Mayhap they had seen the insult and were laughing at it. They were
not his Huzoors; they belonged to the man at his side, who had the
right to taunt him. As a matter of fact, they were discussing the
chances of their ponies in next week's races; but Soma, lost in a
great wrath, a great fear, made it, inevitably, the topic of the whole
world.

Hark! The bugle for the Rifles to form; they were to come to the
parade loaded with ball cartridge. And that rumble was the Artillery,
loaded also, going to take up their position. By and by the
Carabineers would sweep with a clatter and a dash to form the third
side of the hollow square, whereof the fourth was to be a mass of
helpless dark faces, with the eighty-five martyrs and tumbrils in the
middle. Soma had seen it all in general orders, talked it over with his
dearest friend, and called it tyranny. And now the tumbrils clanked
past a little heap of smoldering ashes, that but the day before had
been a guard-house. The lingering smoke from this last work of the
incendiary drifted northward, after the fetters, making one of the
officers cough. But he went on talking of his ponies. True type of the
race which lives to make mistakes, dies to retrieve them. Quick
march!

Streams of spectators bound for the show began to overtake

them, ready with comments on what Soma guarded. And on the
broad white Mall, dividing the native half of the cantonments and
the town of Meerut from the European portion, more than one
carriage with a listless, white-faced woman in it dashed by, on its
way to see the show. The show!

Quick march! Whatever else might be possible in the futures that

was all now, midway between the barracks of the Rifles and the
Carabineers, with the church--mute symbol of the horror which, day
by day, month by month, had been closing in round the people--
blocking the way in front. So they passed on to the wide northern
parade ground, with that hollow square ready; three sides of it
threatening weapons, the fourth of unarmed men, and in the center
the eighty-five picked men of a picked regiment.
 The knot of European spectators round the flag listened with
yawns to the stout General's exordium. The eighty-five being
hopelessly, helplessly in the wrong by military law, there seemed to
be no need to insist on the fact. And the mass of dark faces standing
within range of loaded guns and rifles, within reach of glistening
sabers, did not listen at all. Not that it mattered, since the units in
that crowd had lost the power of accepting facts. Even Soma,
standing to attention beside the tumbrils, only felt a great sense of
outrage, of wrong, of injustice somewhere. And there was one
Englishman, at least, rigid to attention also before his disarmed,
dismounted, yet loyal troop, who must have felt it also, unless he
was more than human. And this was Captain Craigie, who, when his
men appealed to him to save them, to delay this unnecessary
musketry parade, had written in his haste to the Adjutant, "Go to
Smyth at once! Go to Smyth!" and Smyth was his Colonel! Incredible
lack of official etiquette. Repeated hardily, moreover. "Pray don't lose
a moment, but go to Smyth and tell him." What? Only "that this is a
most serious matter, and we may have the whole regiment in open
mutiny in half an hour if it is not attended to." Only that! So it is to
be hoped that Captain Craigie had the official wigging for his
unconventional appeal in his pocket as he shared his regiment's
disgrace, to serve him as a warning--or a consolation.

And now the pompous monotone being ended, the silence,

coming after the clankings, and buglings, and trampings which had
been going on since dawn, was almost oppressive. The three sides
of steel, even the fourth of faces, however, showed no sign. They
stood as stone while the eighty-five were stripped of their uniforms.
But there was more to come. By the General's orders the leg-irons
were to be riveted on one by one; and so, once more, the sound of
iron upon iron recurred monotonously, making the silence of the
intervals still more oppressive. For the prisoners at first seemed
stunned by the isolation from even their as yet unfettered comrades.
But suddenly from a single throat came that cry for justice, which
has a claim to a hearing, at least, in the estimation of the people of
India.
 "Dohai! Dohai! Dohai!"

Soma gave a sort of sigh, and a faint quiver of expectation passed

over the sea of dark faces.

Clang! Clang! The hammers, going on unchecked, were the only

answer. Those three sides of stone had come to see a thing done,
and it must be done; the sooner the better. But the riveting of
eighty-five pairs of leg-irons is not to be done in a moment; so the
cry grew clamorous. Dohai! Dohai! Had they not fought faithfully in
the past? Had they not been deceived? Had they had a fair chance?

But the hammers went on as the sun climbed out of the dust-
haze to gleam on the sloped sabers, glint on the loaded guns, and
send glittering streaks of light along the rifles.

So the cry changed. Were their comrades cowards to stand by

and see this tyranny and raise no finger of help? Oh! curses on
them! 'Tis they who were degraded, dishonored. Curses on the
Colonel who had forced them to this! Curses on every white face!--
curses on every face which stood by!

One, close to the General's flag, broke suddenly into passionate

resentment. Jim Douglas drew out his watch, looked at it, and
gathered his reins together. "An hour and forty-five minutes already.
I'm off, Ridgeway. I can't stand this d----d folly any more."

"My dear fellow, speak lower! If the General----"

"I don't care who hears me," retorted Jim Douglas recklessly as
he steered through the crowd, followed by his friend, "I say it is d----
d inconceivable folly and tyranny. Come on, and let's have a gallop,
for God's sake, and get rid of that devilish sound."

The echo of their horses' resounding hoofs covered, obliterated it.

The wind of their own swiftness seemed to blow the tension away.
So after a spin due north for a mile or two they paused at the edge
of a field where the oxen were circling placidly round on the
threshing-floors and a group of women were taking advantage of
the gustiness to winnow. Their bare, brown arms glistened above
the falling showers of golden grain, their unabashed smiling faces
showed against the clouds of golden chaff drifting behind them.

Jim Douglas looked at them for a moment, returned the salaam of

the men driving the oxen and forking the straw, then turned his
horse toward the cantonment again.

"It is nothing to them; that's one comfort," he said. "But they will
have to suffer for it in the end, I expect. Who will believe when the
time comes that this"--he gave a backward wave of his hand--"went
on unwittingly of that?"

His companion, following his look ahead, to where, in the far

distance, a faint cloud of dust, telling of many feet, hung on the
horizon, said suddenly, as if the sight brought remembrance: "By
George! Douglas, how steady the sepoys stood! I half expected a
row."

"Steadier than I should," remarked the other grimly. "Well, I hope

Smyth is satisfied. To return from leave and drive your regiment into
mutiny in twelve hours is a record performance."

His hearer, who was a civilian, gave a deprecating cough. "That's

a bit hard, surely. I happen to know that he heard while on leave
some story about a concerted rising later on. He may have done it
purposely, to force their hands."

Jim Douglas shrugged his shoulders. "Did he warn you what he

was about to do? Did he allow time to prepare others for his private
mutiny? My dear Ridgeway, it was put on official record two months
ago that an organized scheme for resistance existed in every
regiment between Calcutta and Peshawur; so Smyth might at least
have consulted the colonels of the other two regiments at Meerut.
As it is, the business has strained the loyalty of the most loyal to the
uttermost; and we deserve to suffer, we do indeed."

"You don't mince matters, certainly," said the civilian dryly.

"Why should anybody mince them? Why can't we admit boldly--

the C.-in-C. did it on the sly the other day--that the cartridges are
suspicious? that they leave the muzzle covered with a fat, like
tallow? Why don't we admit it was tallow at first. Why not, at any
rate, admit we are in a hole, instead of refusing to take the common
precaution of having an ammunition wagon loaded up for fear it
should be misconstrued into alarm? Is there no medium between
bribing children with lollipops and torturing them--keeping them on
the strain, under fire, as it were, for hours, watching their best
friends punished unjustly?"

"Unjustly?"

"Yes. To their minds unjustly. And you know what forcible injustice
means to children--and these are really children--simple, ignorant,
obstinate."

They had come back to cantonments again and were rapidly

overtaking the now empty tumbrils going home, for the parade was
over. Further down the road, raising a cloud of dust from their
shackled feet, the eighty-five were being marched jailward under a
native escort.

"Well," said the civilian dryly, "I would give a great deal to know
what those simple babes really thought of us."

"Hate us stock and block for the time. I should," replied Jim
Douglas. They were passing the tumbrils at the moment, and one of
the guard, in sergeant's uniform, looked up in joyful recognition.

"Huzoor It is I, Soma."
 The civilian looked at his companion oddly when, after a minute
or two spent in answering Soma's inquiries as to where and how the
master was to be found, Jim Douglas rode alongside once more.

"Out a bit, eh?" he said dryly.

"Very much out; but they are a queer lot. Do you remember the
story of the self-made American who was told his boast relieved the
Almighty of a great responsibility? Well, he is only responsible for
one-half of the twice-born. The other is due to humanity, to heredity,
what you will! That is what makes these high-caste men so difficult
to deal with. They are twice born. Yes! they are a queer lot."

He repeated the remark with even greater fervor twelve hours

later, when, about midnight, he started on his return ride to Delhi.
For though he had spent the whole day in listening, he had scarcely
heard a word of blame for the scene which had roused him to wrath
that morning. The sepoys had gone about their duties as if nothing
had happened; and despite the undoubted presence of a lot of loose
characters in the bazaar, there had been no disturbance. He laughed
cynically to himself at the waste of a day which would have been
better spent in horse dealing. This, however, settled it. If this
intolerable tyranny failed to rouse action there could be no
immediate danger ahead. To a big cantonment like Meerut, the
biggest in Northern India, with two thousand British troops in it,
even the prospect of a rising was not serious; at Delhi, however,
where there were only native troops, it might have been different.
But now he felt that a handful of resolute men ought to be able to
hold their own anywhere against such aimless invertebrate
discontent. He felt a vague disappointment that it should be so, that
the pleasant cool of night should be so quiet, so peaceful. They were
a poor lot who could do nothing but talk!

As he rode through the station the mess-houses were still alight,

and the gay voices of the guests who had been dining at a large
bungalow, bowered in gardens, reached his ears distinctly.
 "It's the Sabbath already," said one. "Ought to be in our beds!"

"Hooray! for a Europe morning," came a more boyish one

breaking into a carol, "of all the days within the week I dearly love---
-"

"Shut up, Fitz!" put in a third, "you'll wake the General!"

"What's the odds? He can sleep all day. I'm sure his buggy
charger needs a rest."

"Do shut up, Fitz! The Colonel will hear you."

"I don't care. It's Scriptural. Thou and thy ox and thy ass----"

"You promised to come to evening church, Mr. Fitzgerald,"

interrupted a reproachful feminine voice; "you said you would sing in
the choir."

"Did I? Then I'll come. It will wake me up for dinner; besides, I

shall sit next you."

The last words came nearer, softer. Mr. Fitzgerald was evidently
riding home beside someone's carriage.

Pleasant and peaceful indeed! that clank of a sentry, here and

there, only giving a greater sense of security. Not that it was
needed, for here, beyond cantonments, the houses of the clerks and
civilians lay as peaceful, as secure. In the veranda of one of them,
close to the road, a bearer was walking up and down crooning a
patient lullaby to the restless fair-haired child in his arms.

No! truly there could be no fear. It was all talk! He set spurs to his
horse and went on through the silent night at a hand-gallop, for he
had another beast awaiting him halfway, and he wished to be in
Delhi by dawn. There was a row of tall trees bordering the road on
either side, making it dark, and through their swiftly passing boles
the level country stretched to the paler horizon like a sea. And as he
rode, he sat in judgment in his thoughts on those dead levels and
the people who lived in them.

Stagnant, featureless! A dead sea! A mere waste of waters

without form or void! Not even ready for a spirit to move over them;
for if that morning's work left them apathetic, the Moulvie of
Fyzabad himself need preach no voice of God. For this, surely--this
sense of injustice to others, must be the strongest motive, the surest
word to conjure with. That dull dead beat of iron upon the fetters of
others,--which he still seemed to hear,--the surest call to battle.

He paused in his thought, wondering if what he fancied he heard

was but an echo from memory or real sound! Real; undoubtedly. It
was the distant clang of the iron bells upon oxen. That meant that
he must be seven or eight miles out, halfway to the next stage, so
meeting the usual stream of night traffic toward Meerut. He passed
two or three strings of large, looming, half-seen wains without
drawing bridle, then pulled up almost involuntarily to a trot at the
curiously even tread of a drove of iron-shod oxen, and a low chanted
song from behind it. Bunjârah folk! The rough voice, the familiar
rhythm of the hoofs, reminded him of many a pleasant night-march
in their company.

"A good journey, brothers!" he called in the dialect. The answer

came unerringly, dark though it was.

"The Lord keep the Huzoor safe!"

It made him smile as he remembered that of course a lone man

trotting a horse along a highroad at night was bound to be alien in a
country where horses are ambled and travelers go in twos and
threes. So the rough, broad faces would be smiling over the surprise
of a sahib knowing the Bunjârah talk; unless, indeed, it happened to
be---- The possibility of its being the tanda he knew had not
occurred to him before. He pulled up and looked round. A breathless
shadow was at his stirrup, and he fancied he saw a shadow or two
further behind.

"The Huzoor has mistaken the road," came Tiddu's familiar creak.
"Meerut lies to the north."

Breathless as he was, there was the pompous mystery in his voice

which always prefaced an attempt to extort money. And Jim
Douglas, having no further use for the old scoundrel, did not intend
to give him any, so he simulated an utter lack of surprise.

"Hello, Tiddu!" he said. "I had an idea it might be you. So you

recognized my voice?"

The old man laughed. "The Huzoor is mighty clever. He knows old
Tiddu has eyes. They saw the Huzoor's horse--a bay Wazeerie with a
white star none too small, and all the luck-marks--waiting at the
fifteenth milestone, by Begum-a-bad. But the Huzoor, being so
clever, is not going to ride the Wazeerie to-night. He is going to ride
the Belooch he is on back to Meerut, though the star on her
forehead is too small for safety; my thumb could cover it."

"It's a bit too late to teach me the luck-marks, Tiddu," said Jim
Douglas coolly. "You want money, you ruffian; so I suppose you have
something to sell. What is it? If it is worth anything, you can trust
me to pay, surely."

Tiddu looked round furtively. The other shadow, Jhungi or Bhungi,

or both, perhaps--the memory made Jim Douglas smile--had melted
away into the darkness. He and Tiddu were alone. The old man,
even so, reached up to whisper.

"'Tis the yellow fakir, Huzoor! He has come."

"The yellow fakir!" echoed his hearer; "who the devil is he? And
why shouldn't he come, if he likes?"
 Tiddu paused, as if in sheer amaze, for a second. "The Huzoor
has not heard of the yellow fakir? The dumb fakir who brings the
speech that brings more than speech. Wâh!"

"Speech that is more than speech," echoed Jim Douglas angrily,

then paused in his turn; the phrase reminded him, vaguely, of his
past thoughts.

Tiddu's hand went out to the Belooch's rein; his voice lost its
creak and took a soft sing-song to which the mare seemed to come
round of her own accord.

"Yea! Speech that is more than speech, though he is dumb.

Whence he comes none know, not even I, the Many-Faced. But I
can see him when he comes, Huzoor! The others, not unless he wills
to be seen. I saw him to-night. He passed me on a white horse not
half an hour agone, going Meerutward. Did not the Huzoor see him?
That is because he has learned from old Tiddu to make others see,
but not to see himself. But the old man will teach him this also if he
is in Meerut by dawn. If he is there by dawn he will see the yellow
fakir who brings the speech that brings more than speech."

The sing-song ceased; the Belooch was stepping briskly back

toward Meerut.

"You infernal old humbug!" began Jim Douglas.

"The Huzoor does not believe, of course," remarked Tiddu, in the

most matter-of-fact creak. "But Meerut is only eight miles off. His
other horse can wait; and if he does not see the yellow fakir there is
no need to open the purse-strings."

The Englishman looked at his half-seen companion admiringly. He

was the most consummate scoundrel! His blending of mystery and
purely commercial commonplace was perfect--almost irresistible.
There was no reason why he should go on; the groom, halfway, had
his usual orders to stay till his master came. For the rest, it would be
pleasant to renew the old pleasant memory--pleasant even to renew
his acquaintance with Tiddu's guile, which struck him afresh each
time he came across it.

He slipped from his horse without a word, and was about to pull
the reins over her head so as to lead her, when Tiddu stopped short.

"Jhungi will take her to the rest-house, Huzoor, or Bhungi. It will

be safer so. I have a clean cotton quilt in the bundle, and the Huzoor
can have my shoes and rub his legs in the dust. That will do till
dawn."

He gave a jackal's cry, which was echoed from the darkness.

"Leave her so, Huzoor! She is safe," said Tiddu; and Jim Douglas,
as he obeyed, heard the mare whinny softly, as if to a foal, as a
shadow came out of the bushes. Junghi or Bhungi, no doubt.

Five minutes after, with a certain unaccountable pleasure, he

found himself walking beside a laden bullock, one arm resting on its
broad back, his feet keeping step with the remittent clang of its bell.
A strange dreamy companionship, as he knew of old. And once more
the stars seemed, after a time, to twinkle in unison with the bell, he
seemed to forget thought, to forget everything save the peaceful
stillness around, and his own unresting peace.

So, he and the laden beast went on as one living, breathing

mortal, till the little shiver of wind came, which comes with the first
paling of the sky. It was one of those yellow dawns, serene,
cloudless, save for a puff or two of thin gray vapor low down on the
horizon, looking as if it were smoke from an unseen censer swinging
before the chariot of the Sun which heads the procession of the
hours. He was so absorbed in watching the yellow light grow to
those clouds no bigger than a man's hand; so lost in the strange
companionship with the laden beast bound to the wheel of Life and
Death as he was, yet asking no question of the future, that Tiddu's
hand and voice startled him.
 "Huzoor!" he said. "The yellow fakir!"

They were close on the city of Meerut. The road, dipping down to
cross a depression, left a bank of yellow dust on either side. And on
the eastern one, outlined against the yellow sunrise, sat a
motionless figure. It was naked, and painted from head to foot a
bright yellow color. The closed eyes were daubed over so as to hide
them utterly, and on the forehead, as it is in the image of Siva, was
painted perpendicularly a gigantic eye, wide, set, stony. Before it in
the dust lay the beggar's bowl for alms.

"The roads part here, Huzoor," said Tiddu. "This to the city; that
to the cantonments."

As he spoke, a handsome young fellow came swaggering down

the latter, on his way evidently to riotous living in the bazaar.
Suddenly he paused, his hand went up to his eyes as if the rising
sun were in them. Then he stepped across the road and dropped a
coin into the beggar's bowl. Tiddu nodded his head gravely.

"That man is wanted, Huzoor. That is why he saw. Mayhap he is

to give the word."

"The word?" echoed Jim Douglas. "You said he was dumb?"

"I meant the trooper, Huzoor. The fakir wanted him. To give the
word, mayhap. Someone must always give it."

Jim Douglas felt an odd thrill. He had never thought of that

before. Someone, of course, must always give the word, the speech
which brought more than speech. What would it be? Something
soul-stirring, no doubt; for Humanity had a theory that an angel
must trouble the waters and so give it a righteous cause for stepping
in to heal the evil.

But what a strange knack the old man had of stirring the
imagination with ridiculous mystery! He felt vexed with himself for
his own thrill, his own thoughts. "He is a very ordinary yogi, I should
say," he remarked, looking toward the yellow sunrise, but the figure
was gone. He turned to Tiddu again, with real annoyance. "Well!
Whoever he is, he cannot want me. And I certainly saw him."

"I willed the Huzoor to see!" replied Tiddu with calm effrontery.

Jim Douglas laughed. The man was certainly a consummate liar;

there was never any possibility of catching him out.
 CHAPTER VII.
THE WORD WENT FORTH.

The Procession of the Hours had a weary march of it between the

yellow sunrise and the yellow sunset of the 10th of May, 1857; for
the heavens were as brass, the air one flame of white heat. The
mud huts of the sepoy lines at Meerut looked and felt like bricks
baking in a kiln; yet the torpor which the remorseless glare of noon
brings even to native humanity was exchanged for a strange
restlessness. The doors stood open for the most part, and men
wandered in and out aimlessly, like swarming bees before the queen
appears. In the bazaar, in the city too, crowds drifted hither and
thither, thirstily, as if it were not the fast month of Rumzân, when
the Mohammedans are denied the solace of even a drop of water till
sundown. Drifted hither and thither, pausing to gather closer at a
hint of novelty, melting away again, restless as ever.

Mayhap it was but the inevitable reaction after the stun and
stupefaction of Saturday, the sudden awakening to the result--
namely, that eighty-five of the best, smartest soldiers in Meerut had
been set to toil for ten years in shackles because they refused to be
defiled, to become apostate. On the other hand, the old Baharupa
may have been right about the yellow fakir: the silent, motionless
figure might have set folk listening and waiting for the word. It was
to be seen by all now sitting outside the city; at least Jim Douglas
saw it several times. Saw, also, that the beggar's bowl was fuller and
fuller; but the impossibility of asserting that all the passers-by saw it,
as he did, haunted him, once the idea presented itself to his mind. It
was always so with Tiddu's mysteries; they were no more
susceptible to disproof than they were to proof. You could waste
time, of course, in this case by waiting and watching, but in the
natural course of events half the passers-by would go on as if they
saw nothing, and only one in a hundred or so would give an alms.
So what would be the good?

No one else, however, among the masters troubled himself to find

a cause for the restlessness; no one even knew of it. To begin with,
it was a Sunday, so that even the bond of a common labor was
slackened between the dark faces and the light. Then a mile or more
of waste deserted land and dry watercourse lay on either side of the
broad white road which split the cantonment into halves. So that the
North knew nothing of what was going on in the South, and while
men were swarming like bees in the sun on one side, on the other
they were shut up in barracks and bungalows gasping with the heat,
longing for the sun to set, and thanking their stars when the
chaplain's memo came round to say that the evening service had
been postponed for half an hour to allow the seething, glowing air to
cool a little.

It was not the heat, however, which prevented Major Erlton from
taking his usual siesta. It was thought. He had come over from Delhi
on inspection duty a few days before and had intended returning
that evening; but the morning's post had brought him a letter which
upset all his plans. Alice Gissing's husband had come out a fortnight
earlier than they had expected, and was already on his way up-
country. The crisis had come, the decision must be made. It was not
any hesitation, however, which sent the heavy handsome face to rest
in the big strong hands as he rested his elbows on a sheet of blank
paper. He had made up his mind on the very day when Alice Gissing
had first told him why she could not go back to her husband. The
letter forwarding his papers for resignation was already sealed on
the table beside him; and the surprise was rather a gain than
otherwise. Alice could join him at Meerut now, and they could slip
away together to Cashmere or any out of the way place where there
was shooting. That would save a lot of fuss; and the fear of fuss was
the only one which troubled the Major, personally. He hated to know
that even his friends would wonder--for the matter of that those who
knew him best would wonder most--why he was chucking everything
for a woman he had been mixed up with for years. Yet he had found
no difficulty in writing that official request; none in telling little Allie
to join him as soon as she could. It was this third letter which could
not be written. He took up the pen more than once, only to lay it
down again. He began, "My dear Kate," once, only to tear the sheet
to pieces. How could he call her his when he was going to tell her
that she was his no longer; that the best thing she could do was to
divorce him and marry some other chap to be a father to the boy.

The thought sent the head into the hands again; for Herbert
Erlton was a healthy animal and loved his offspring by instinct. He
had, in truth, a queer upside-down notion of his responsibilities
toward them. If the fates had permitted it he would have done his
best by Freddy. Shown him the ropes, given him useful tips, stood
by his inexperience, paid his reasonable debts--always supposing he
had the wherewithal.

Then how was he to tell Kate all the ugly story. He had left her in
his thoughts so completely, she had been so far apart from him for
so many years now, that he hesitated over telling her the bare facts,
just as--being conventionally a perfectly well-bred man--he would
have hesitated how to tell them to any innocent woman of his
acquaintance. Rather more so, for Kate--though she was sentimental
enough, he told himself, for two--had never been sensible and
looked things in the face. If she had, it might all have been different.
Then with a rush came the remembrance that Allie did--that she
knew him every inch and was yet willing to come with him. While
he? He would stick through thick and thin to little Allie, who never
made a man feel a fool or a beast. Something in the last assertion
seemed to harden his heart; he took up his pen and began to write:
 "My Dear Kate: I call you that because I can't think of any
other beginning that doesn't seem foolish; but it means nothing, and
I only want to tell you that circumstances over which we had no
control (he felt rather proud of this circumlocution for a circumstance
due entirely to his volition) make it necessary for me to leave you. It
is the only course open to me as a gentleman. Besides I want to, for
I love Alice Gissing dearly. I am going to marry her, D. V., as soon as
I can. Mr. Gissing may make a fuss--it is a criminal offense, you see,
in India--but we shall tide over that. Of course you could prevent me
too, but you are not that sort. So I have sent in my papers. It is a
pity, in a way, because I liked this work. But it is only a two-year
appointment, and I should hate the regiment after it. For the rest, I
am not such a fool as to think you will mind; except for the boy. It is
a pity for him too, but it isn't as if he were a girl, and the other may
be. It will do no good to say I'm sorry. Besides, I don't think it is all
my fault, and I know you will be happier without me.

"Yours sincerely,

"Herbert Erlton.
"P. S.--It's no use crying over spilled milk. I believe you used to
think I would get the regiment some day, but they would never have
given it to me. I made a bit of a spurt lately, but it couldn't have
lasted to the finish, and after all, that is the win or the lose in a race.

"H. E."

The postscript was added after rereading the rest with an

uncomfortable remembrance that it was the last letter he meant to
write to her. Then he threw it ready for the post beside the others,
and lay down feeling that he had done his duty. And as he dozed off
his own simile haunted him. From start to finish! How few men rode
straight all the way; and the poor beggars who came to grief over
the last fence weren't so far behind those who came in for the
clapping. It was the finish that did it; that was the win or the lose.
But he would run straight with little Allie--straight as a die! So he lost
consciousness in a glow of virtuous content with the future, and
joined the whole of the northern half of Meerut in their noontide
slumbers; for the future outlook, if not exactly satisfying, was not
sufficiently dubious to keep it awake.

But in the southern half, humanity was still swarming in and out,
waiting, listening. In one of the mud-huts, however, a company of
men gathered within closed doors had been listening to some
purpose. Listening to an eloquent speaker, the accredited agent of a
down-country organization. He had arrived in Meerut a day or two
before, and had held one meeting after another in the lines, doing
his utmost to prevent any premature action; for the fiat of the
leaders was that there should be patience till the 31st of May. Then,
not until then, a combined blow for India, for God, for themselves,
might be struck with chance of success.

"Ameen!" assented one old man who had come with him. An old
man in a huge faded green turban with dyed red hair and beard,
and with a huge green waistband holding a curved scimitar. Briefly, a
Ghâzee or Mohammedan fanatic. "Patience, all ye faithful, till
Sunday, the 31st of May. Then, while the hell-doomed infidels are at
their evening prayer, defenseless, fall on them and slay. God will
show the right! This is the Moulvie's word, sent by me his servant.
Give the Great Cry, brothers, in the House of the Thief! Smite ye of
Meerut, and we of Lucknow will smite also." His wild uncontrolled
voice rolled on in broad Arabic vowels from one text to another.

"And we of Delhi will smite also," interrupted the wearer of a

rakish Moghul cap impatiently. "We will smite for the Queen."

"The Queen?" echoed an older man in the same dress. "What

hath the Sheeah woman to do with the race of Timoor?"
 "Peace! peace! brothers," put in the agent with authority. "These
times are not for petty squabbles. Let who be the heir, the King must
reign."

A murmur of assent rose; but it was broken in upon by a

dissentient voice from a group of troopers at the door.

"Then our comrades are to rot in jail till the 31st? That suits not
the men of the 3d Cavalry."

"Then let the 3d Cavalry suit itself," retorted the agent fearlessly.
"We can stand without them. Can they stand without us? Answer
me, men of the 20th; men of the 11th."

"There be not many of us here," muttered a voice from a dark

corner; "and maybe we could hold our own against the lot of you."
It was Soma's, and the man beside him frowned. But the agent who
knew every petty jealousy, every private quarrel of regiment with
regiment, went on remorselessly. "Let the 3d swagger if it choose.
The Rajpoots and Brahmins know how to obey the stars. The 31st is
the auspicious day. That is the word. The word of the King, of the
Brahmins, of India, of God!"

"The 31st! Then slay and spare not! It is jehad! Deen! Deen!
Futteh Mohammed!" said the Ghâzee.

The cry, though a mere whisper, electrified the Mohammedans,

and an older man in the group of dissentients at the door muttered
that he could hold his troop--if others who had risen to favor quicker
than he--could hold theirs.

"I'll hold mine, Khân sahib, without thine aid," retorted a very
young smart-looking native officer angrily. "That is if the women will
hold their tongues. But, look you, my troop held the hardest hitters
in the 3d. And Nargeeza's fancy is of those in jail. Now Nargeeza
leads all the other town-women by the nose; and that means much
to men who be not all saints like Ghâzee-jee yonder, who ties the
two ends of life with a ragged green turban and a bloody banner!"

"And I see not why our comrades should stay yonder for three
weeks, when there is but a native guard to hold them, and I and
mine have made the Sirkar what it is," put in a man with arrogance
and insolence written on him from top to toe; a true type of the
pampered Brahmin sepoy.

"Rescue them if thou wilt, Havildar-jee," sneered the agent. "But

the man who risks our plot will be held traitor by the Council. And
the men of the 11th," he added sharply, turning to the corner
whence Soma's voice had come, "may remember that also. They
have had the audacity to stipulate for their Colonel's life."

"For our officers lives, baboo-jee," came the voice again, bold as
the agent's. "We of the 11th kill not men who have led us to victory.
And if this be not understood I, Soma, Yadubansi, go straight to the
Colonel and tell him. We are not butchers in the 11th: Oh, priest of
Kâli!"

The agent turned a little pale. He did not care to have his calling
known, and he saw at a glance that his challenger had the reckless
fire of hemp in his eyes. He had indeed been drinking as a refuge
from the memory of the sweeper's broom and from the taunts and
threats which had been used to force him to join the malcontents.
Such a man was not safe to quarrel with, nor was the audience fit
for a discussion of that topic; there was already a stir in it, and
mutterings that butchery was one thing, fighting another.

"Pay thy Colonel's journey home if thou likest, Rajpoot-jee," he

said with a sneer. "Ay! and give him pension, too! All we want is to
get rid of them. And there will be plenty of loot left when the
pension is paid, for it is to be each man for himself when the time
comes. Not share and share alike with every coward who will not
risk his life in looting, as it is with the Sirkar."
 It was a deft red-herring to these born mercenaries, and no more
was said. But as the meeting dispersed by twos and threes to avoid
notice, the agent stood at the door giving the word in a final
whisper:

"Patience till the 31st."

"Willst take a seat in our carriage, Ghâzee-jee," said a fat native

officer as he passed out. "'Tis at thy service since thou goest to Delhi
and we must return to-night. God knows we have done enough to
damn us at Meerut over this court-martial! But what would you? If
we had not given the verdict for the Huzoors there would have been
more of us in jail. So we bide our time like the rest. And to-morrow
there is the parade to hear the sentence on the martyrs at
Barrackpore. Do the sahibs think us cowards that they drive us so?
God smite their souls to hell!"

"He will, brother, he will. The Cry shall yet be heard in the House
of the Thief," said the Ghâzee fiercely, his eyes growing dreamy with
hope. He was thinking of a sunset near the Goomtee more than a
year ago, when he had bid every penny he possessed for his own, in
vain.

"Well, come if thou likest," continued the native officer. "That

camel of thine yonder is lame, and we have room. 'Twas Erlton
sahib's dâk by rights, but he goes not; so we got it cheap instead of
an ekka."

"Erlton sahib's!" echoed the fanatic, clutching at his sword. "Ay!

Ay!" he went on half to himself. "I knew he was at Delhi, and the
mem who laughed, and the other mem who would not listen. Nay!
Soubadar-jee! I travel in no carriage of Erlton sahib's. My camel will
serve me."

"'Tis the vehicle of saints," sneered the owner of the rakish

Moghul cap. "Verily, when I saw thee mounted on it, Ghâzee-jee, I
deemed thee the Lord Ali."
 "Peace! scoffer," interrupted the fanatic, "lest I mistake thee for
an infidel."

The Moghul ducked hastily from a wild swing of the curved sword,
and moved off swearing such firebrands should be locked up; they
might set light to the train ere wise men had it ready.

"No fear!" said the smart young troop-sergeant of the 3d. "Who
listens to such as he save those whose blood has cooled, and those
whose blood was never hot? The fighters listen to women who can
make their flame."

Soma, who was drifting with them toward the drug-shops of the
city, scowled fiercely. "That may suit thee, Mussulman-jee, who art
casteless, and can sup shares with sweeper women in the bazaar;
but the Rajpoot needs no harlot to teach him courage. The mothers
of his race have enough and to spare."

"Loh! hark to him!" jibed the corporal of the 20th, who was
sticking to his prey like a leech. "Ask him, Havildar-jee, if he prefers
a sweeper's broom to a sweeper's lips."

There was a roar of laughter from the group.

Soma gave a beast-like cry, looked as though he were about to

spring, then--recognizing his own helplessness--flung himself away
from all companionship and walked home moodily. They had driven
him too far; he would not stand it. If that tale was spread abroad,
he would side with the Huzoors who did not believe such things--
with the Colonel who understood, like the Colonel before him who
had gone home on pension; for the 11th had a cult of their officers.
And these fools, his countrymen, thought to make him a butcher by
threats; sought to make him take revenge for what deserved
revenge. For it was the Sirkar's fault--it was the Sirkar's fault.

In truth a strange conflict was going on in this man's mind, as it

was in many another such as his, between inherited traditions,
making alike for loyalty and disloyalty. There was the knowledge of
his forbears' pride in their victories, in their sahibs who had led them
to victory, and the knowledge of their pride in the veriest jot or tittle
of ceremonial law. A dull, painful amaze filled him that these two
broad facts should be in conflict; that those, whom in a way he felt
to be part of his life, should be in league against him. All the more
reason, that, for showing them who were the better men; for
standing up fairly to a fair fight. By all the delights of Swargal he
would like to stand up fair, even to the master--the man who, in his
presence, had shot three tigers on foot in half an hour--the demi-
god of his hunting yarns for years.

And then, suddenly, he remembered that this hero of his might be

shot like a dog on the 31st at Delhi--would be shot, since he was
certain to be in the front of anything. Soma's heat-fevered, hemp-
drugged brain seized on the thought fiercely, confusedly. That must
not be! The master, at any rate, must be warned. He would go down
when the sun set, and see if he were still where he had been the
day before; and if not?--Why! then it must be two days leave to
Delhi! He was not going to butcher the master for all the sweepers'
brooms in the world. Fools! those others, to think to drive him,
Soma, Chundrabansi! So he flung himself on his string bed to sleep
till the sunset came, and the tyranny of heat be overpast.

But there was one, close by in the cantonment bazaar, who

waited for sunset with no desire for it to bring coolness. She meant
it to bring heat instead. And this was Nargeeza the courtesan. She
was past the prime of everything save vice, a woman who, once all-
powerful, could not hope for many more lovers; and hers, a man
rich beyond most soldiers, lay in jail for ten years. No wonder, then,
that as she lay half-torpid among a heap of tawdry finery in the
biggest house of the lane set apart by regulation for such as she,
there was all the venom of a snake in her drowsy brain. The air of
the low room was deadly with a scent of musk and roses and
orange-blossom-oil. The half-dozen girls and women who lounged in
it, or in the balcony, were half undressed, their bare brown arms
flung carelessly upon dirty mats and torn quilts. Their harvest time
was not yet; that would come later when sunsetting brought the
men from the lines. This, then, was the time for sleep. But
Nargeeza, recognized head of the recognized regimental women, sat
up suddenly and said sharply:

"Thou didst not tell me, Nasiban, what Gulâbi said. Is she of us?"

A drowsy lump of a girl stirred, yawned, and answered sullenly,

"Yea! Yea! she is of us. She claims our right to kiss no cowards--no
cowards."

The voice tailed off into sleep again, and Nargeeza lay back with a
smile of content to wait also. So, after a time, folk began to stir in
the bungalows. First in the rest-house, where, oddly enough, Jim
Douglas occupied one end of the long low barrack of a place, and
Herbert Erlton the other. The former having come back from the city
in an evil temper to get something to eat before starting for Delhi,
had found his horse, the Belooch, unaccountably indisposed; Jhungi,
who had brought her there safely, professing entire ignorance of the
cause, or, on pressure, suggesting the nefarious Bhungi. Tiddu
asserting--with a calm assumption of superior knowledge, for which
Jim Douglas could have kicked him--that the mare had been
drugged. As if anybody could not tell that? And that the drug had
been opium. To which the old scoundrel had replied affably that in
that case the effects would pass off during the night, and the mare
be none the worse; no one be any the worse, since the Huzoor was
quite comfortable in Meerut, and could easily stay another day. It
was a nicer place than Delhi; there were more sahibs in it, and the
presence of the "ghora logue" (i. e., English soldiers) kept everyone
virtuous.

His hearer looked at him sharply. Here was some other trick, no
doubt, to cozen him out of another five rupees; for something,
maybe, as useless as the yellow fakir. And there was really no reason
for delay; it was only a case of walking the mare quietly. For the
matter of that, the exercise would do her good, and help her to work
off the effects of the drug. So he would start sooner, that was all.
Nevertheless he gave an envious look at the Major's little Arab in the
next stall. It would most likely be marching back to Delhi that night,
and he would have given something to ride it again. But as he was
returning from the stables, he learned by chance that the Major's
plans had been altered. An orderly was coming from his room with
letters and a telegram, and knowing the man, Jim Douglas asked
him to take one for him also, and so save trouble. It did not take
long to write, for it only contained one word, "No." It was in reply to
one he had received a few hours before from the military magnate,
asking him to do some more work. And as the orderly stowed away
the accompanying rupee carefully, Jim Douglas--waiting to make
over the paper--saw quite involuntarily that the Major's telegram
also consisted of one word, "Come." And he saw the name also; big,
black, bold, in the Major's handwriting. "Gissing, Delhi."

He gave a shrug of his shoulders as he turned away to get ready

for his start. So that was it; and even Kate Erlton had not benefited
by his sacrifice. No one had benefited. There had been no chance
for any of them. "Come!" That ended Kate Erlton's hope of
concealment, the Major's career. "No!" That ended his own vague
ambitions. Still, it was a strange chance in itself that those two
laconic renunciations should go the same day by the same hand. No
stranger telegrams, he thought, could have left Meerut, or were
likely to leave it that night.

He was wrong, however. An hour or two later, the strangest

telegram that ever came as sole warning to an Empire that its very
foundation was attacked, left Meerut for Agra; sent by the
postmaster's niece.

"The Cavalry," it ran, "have risen, setting fire to their own houses
besides having killed and wounded all European officers and soldiers
they could find near the lines. If Aunt intends starting to-morrow,
please detain her, as the van has been prevented from leaving the
station."

For, as Jim Douglas paced slowly down the Mall toward Delhi, and
Soma, his buckles gleaming, his belts pipe-clayed to dazzling
whiteness, was swaggering through the bazaar on his way to the
rest-house with his word of warning--the word which would have
given Jim Douglas the power for which he had longed--another word
was being spoken in that lane of lust, where the time had come for
which Nargeeza had waited all day. But she did not say it. It was
only a big trollop of a girl hung with jasmine garlands, painted,
giggling.

"We of the bazaar kiss no cowards," she said derisively. "Where

are your comrades?"

The man to whom she said it, a young dissolute-faced trooper,

dressed in the loose rakish muslins beloved of his class--the very
man, perchance, who had gone cityward that morning, and dropped
an alms into the yellow fakir's bowl--stood for a second in the
stifling, maddening atmosphere of musk and rose and orange-
blossom; stood before all those insolent allurements, balked in his
passion, checked in his desires. Then, with an oath, he dashed from
her insulting charms; dashed into the street with a cry:

"To horse! To horse, brothers! To the jail! to our comrades!"

The word had been spoken. The speech which brings more than
speech, had come from the painted lips of a harlot.

The first clang of the church bell--which the chaplain had

forgotten to postpone--came faintly audible across the dusty plain,
making other men pause and look at each other. Why not? It was
the hour of prayer--the appointed time. Their comrades could be
easily rescued--there was but a native guard at the jail. And hark!
from another pair of painted derisive lips came the same retort,
flung from a balcony.
 "Trra! We of the bazaar kiss no cowards!"

"To horse! To horse! Let the comrades be rescued first; and then--
--"

The word had been spoken. Nothing so very soul-stirring after all.
No consideration of caste or religion, patriotism or ambition. Only a
taunt from a pair of painted lips.
 BOOK III.
FROM DUSK TO DAWN.
 CHAPTER I.
NIGHT.

"To the rescue! To the rescue!"

The cry was no more than that at first. To the rescue of the
eighty-five martyrs, the blows upon whose shackles still seemed to
echo in their comrades' ears. Even so, the cry heard by Soma as he
passed through the bazaar meant insubordination--the greatest
crime he knew--and sent him flying to his own lines to give the
alarm. Sent him thence by instinct, oblivious of that promise for the
31st--or perhaps mindful of it and seeing in this outburst a mere
riot--to his Colonel's house with twenty or thirty comrades clamoring
for their arms, protesting that with them they would soon settle
matters for the Huzoors. But suspicion was in the air, and even the
Colonel of the 11th could not trust all his regiment. Ready for
church, he flung himself on his horse and raced back with the
clamoring men to the lines.

And by this time there was another race going on. Captain
Craigie's faithful troop of the 3d Cavalry were racing after his shout
of "Dau-ro! bhai-yan, Dau-ro!" (Ride, brothers, ride!) toward the jail
in the hopes of averting the rescue of their comrades. For, as the
records are careful to say, he and his troop "were dressed as for
parade"--not a buckle or a belt awry--ready to combat the danger
before others had grasped it, and swiftly, without a thought, went
for the first offenders. Too late! the doors were open, the birds
flown.
 What next was to be done? What but to bring the troop back
without a defaulter--despite the taunts of escaping convicts, the
temptations of comrades flushed by success--to the parade ground
for orders. But there was no one to give them, for when the 3d
Cavalry led the van of mutiny at Meerut their Colonel was in the
European cantonment as field officer of the week, and there he
"conceived it his duty to remain." Perhaps rightly. And it is also
conceivable that his absence made no difference, since it is,
palpably, an easier task to make a regiment mutiny than to bring it
back to its allegiance.

Meanwhile the officers of the other regiments, the 11th and the
20th, were facing their men boldly; facing the problem how to keep
them steady till that squadron of the Carabineers should sweep
down, followed by a company or two of the Rifles at the double, and
turn the balance in favor of loyalty. It could not be long now. Nearly
an hour had passed since the first wild stampede to the jail. The
refuse and rabble of the town were by this time swarming out of it,
armed with sticks and staves; the two thousand and odd felons
released from the jails were swarming in, seeking weapons. The
danger grew every second, and the officers of the 11th, though their
men stood steady as rocks behind them, counted the moments as
they sped. For on the other side of the road, on the parade ground
of the 20th regiment, the sepoys, ordered, as the 11th had been, to
turn out unarmed, were barely restrained from rushing the bells by
the entreaties of their native officers; the European ones being
powerless.

"Keep the men steady for me," said Colonel Finnis to his second in
command; "I'll go over and see what I can do."

He thought the voice of a man loved and trusted by one

regiment, a man who could speak to his sepoys without an
interpreter, might have power to steady another.
 Jai bahâduri! (Victory to courage!) muttered Soma under his
breath as he watched his Colonel canter quietly into danger. And his
finger hungered on that hot May evening for the cool of the trigger
which was denied him.

Jai bahâduri! A murmur seemed to run through the ranks, they

dressed themselves firmer, squarer. Colonel Finnis, glancing back,
saw a sight to gladden any commandant's heart. A regiment steady
as a rock, drawn up as for parade, absolutely in hand despite that
strange new sound in the air. The sound which above all others gets
into men's brains like new wine. The sound of a file upon fetters--the
sound of escape, of freedom, of license! It had been rising
unchecked for half an hour from the lines of the 3d, whither the
martyrs had been brought in triumph. It was rising now from the
bazaar, the city, from every quiet corner where a prisoner might
pause to hack and hammer at his leg-irons with the first tool he
could find.

What was one man's voice against this sound, strengthened as it

was by the cry of a trooper galloping madly from the north shouting
that the English were in sight? What more likely? Had not ample
time passed for the whole British garrison to be coming with fixed
bayonets and a whoop, to make short work of unarmed men who
had not made up their minds?

That must be no longer!

"Quick! brothers. Quick! Kill! Kill! Down with the officers! Shoot
ere the white faces come!"

It was a sudden wild yell of terror, of courage, of sheer cruelty. It

drowned the scream of the Colonel's horse as it staggered under
him. It drowned his steady appealing voice, his faint sob, as he
threw up his hands at the next shot, and fell, the first victim to the
Great Revolt.
 It drowned something else also. It drowned Soma's groan of wild,
half-stupefied, helpless rage as he saw his Colonel fall,--the sahib
who had led him to victory,--the sahib whom he loved, whom he was
pledged to save. And his groan was echoed by many another brave
man in those ranks, thus brought face to face suddenly with the
necessity for decision.

"Steady, men, steady!"

That call, in the alien voice, echoed above the whistling of the
bullets as they found a billet here and there among the ranks; for
the men of the 20th, maddened by that fresh murder, now shot
wildly at their officers.

"Steady, men! Steady, for God's sake!"

The entreaty was not in vain; they were steady still. Ay, steady,
but unarmed! Steady as a rock still, but helpless!

Helpless, unarmed! By all the gods all men worshiped, men could
not suffer that for long, when bullets were whistling into their ranks.

So there was a waver at last in the long line. A faint tremble, like
the tremble of a curving wave ere it falls. Then, with a confused
roar, an aimless sweeping away of all things in its path, it broke as a
wave breaks upon a pebbly shore.

"To arms, brothers! Quick! fire! fire!"

Upon whom?[2] God knows! Not on their officers, for these were
already being hustled to the rear, hustled into safety.

"Quick, brothers, quick! Kill! Kill!"

The cry rose on all sides now, as the wave of revolt surged on.
But there was none left to kill; for the work was done in the 20th
lines, and no new white faces came to stem the tide. Two thousand
and odd Englishmen who might have stemmed it being still on the
parade-ground by the church, waiting for orders, for ammunition, for
a General, for everything save--thank Heaven!--for courage.

So the wave surged on, to what end it scarcely knew, leaving

behind it groups of sullen, startled faces.

"Whose fault but their own?" muttered an old man fiercely; an old
man whose son served beside him in the regiment, whose grandson
was on the roster for future enlistment. "Why were we left helpless
as new-born babes?"

"Why?" echoed a scornful voice from the gathering clusters of

undecided men, waiting, with growing fear, hope, despair, or
triumph, for what was to come next: waiting, briefly, for the master
to come, or not to come. "Why? because they were afraid of us;
because their time is past, baba jee. Let them go!"

Let them go. Incomprehensible suggestion to that brave worn stiff

in the master's service; so, with a great numb ache in an old heart,
an old body strode away, elbowing younger ones from its path
savagely.

"Old Dhurma hath grown milksop," jeered one spectator; "that is

with doing dry-nurse to his Captain's babies."

The words caught the old man's ear and sent a quick decision to
his dazed face. The baba logue! Yes; they must be safeguarded; for
ominous smoke began to rise from neighboring roof-trees, and a
strange note of sheer wild-beast ferocity grew to the confused roar
of the drifting, shifting, still aimless crowd.

"Quick, brothers, quick! Kill, root and branch! Why dost linger? Art
afraid? Afraid of cowards? Quick--kill everyone!"

The cry, boastful, jeering, came from a sepoy in the uniform of

the 20th, who, with a face ablaze with mad exultation, forced his
way forward. There was something in his tone which seemed to
send a shiver of fresh excitement through his comrades, for they
paused in their strange, aimless tumult, paused and listened to the
jeers, the reproaches.

"What! art cowards too?" he went on. "Then follow me. For I
began it--I fired the first shot--I killed the first infidel. I----"

The boast never ended, for above it came a quicker cry: "Kill, kill,
kill the traitor! Kill the man who betrayed us."

There was a rush onward toward the boastful, arrogant voice, the
report of half a dozen muskets, and the crowd surged on to revolt
over the body of the man who had fired the first shot of the mutiny.

For it was a strange crowd indeed; most of it powerless for good

or ill, sheep without a shepherd, wandering after the rabble of
escaped convicts and the refuse of bazaars as they plundered and
fired the houses. Joining in in the license helplessly, drifting
inevitably to violence, so that some looked on curiously,
unconcernedly, while others, maddened by the smell of blood, the
sounds of murder, dragged helpless Englishmen and Englishwomen
from their carriages and did them to death savagely.

But there were more like Soma, who, as the darkness deepened
and the glare and the dire confusion and dismay grew, stood aloof
from it voluntarily, waiting, with a certain callousness, to see if the
master would come, or if folk said true when they declared his time
was past, his day done.

Where was he? He should have come hours ago, irresistible,

overwhelming. But there was no sign. Not a hint of resistance, save
every now and again a clatter of hoofs through the darkness, an
alien voice calling "Mâro! Mâro!" to those behind him, and a fierce
howl of an echo, "Mâro! Mâro! Mâ-roh!" from the faithful troop. For
Captain Craigie, finding none to help him, had changed his cry. It
was "kill, kill, kill" now. And the faithful troop obeyed orders.
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