Jack"s weariness descended on him without warning. Sliding down in the lee of a rock, he slept in a crumpled bundle, with dreams haunted by the throbbing of a tabla drum, and Mary warning him to look after himself.
The drumming continued after the deep chill of pre-dawn woke him. Jack stretched, groaned and breakfasted by lighting a cheroot until Sinclair knocked it from his mouth and stamped the glowing end out.
"The Bunerwals can see the gleam," he said in a fierce whisper. "Their marksmen will kill you."
Jack nodded. Tiredness had made him careless. The Sikh sentries were alert, with the others sleeping in various positions. He heard the whisper of wind in the trees, smelled the sweet scent of pine, and sighed. Probyn had been correct; why did humanity spoil beauty with bloodshed? Th
