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“Do you hear anything?” he asked her suddenly.

She strained her ears, but beyond the faint sounds of the camp, the stamping of an impatient horse, the clink of a bridle, or the clank of a sentry’s weapon, she could hear nothing.

“I knew it,” he said. “It is only fancy, but I wondered whether this night-stillness would affect you as it does me. You know what it is to stand alone at night and look into the darkness, and listen to the silence? Whenever I do that on this frontier I hear footsteps—hurrying steps, the steps of a multitude, passing on and on for ever. I pray God I may never hear them turn aside and come this way!”

“Why?” asked Penelope, awed by his tone.

“Because they are the footsteps of the wild tribes of Central Asia, whose fathers poured down through these passes to the conquest of India. They wander from place to place, owning no master, obeying their chiefs when it suits them, always ready for plunder and rapine. And to the south, spread out before them, is the wealth of the idolater and the Kaffir. Of course, it would take something to move them—a cattle-plague, perhaps, leading to famine—and a leader to unite them sufficiently to utilise their vast numbers to advantage; but who is to know what is going on beyond those hills? There are men who have gone there and returned—that splendid young fellow Whybrow is there now—but they see only what they are allowed to see. I tell you, sometimes at night the thought of those wandering millions comes upon me with such force that I cannot rest. I get up and ride—ride along the border, even across it into Nalapur, to make sure that the tribes are not at our very doors.”