No More Learning

Probably
the Burmans had not used their daks for fear of provoking rifle-lire. Flory pushed his way
into the crowd and was immediately swallowed up like the others. A sea of bodies closed
in upon him and flung him from side to side, bumping his ribs and choking him with their
animal heat. He struggled onwards with an almost dreamlike feeling, so absurd and
unreal was the situation. The whole riot had been ludicrous from the start, and what was
most ludicrous of all was that the Burmans, who might have killed him, did not know
what to do with him now he was among them. Some yelled insults in his face, some
jostled him and stamped on his feet, some even tried to make way for him, as a white
man. He was not certain whether he was fighting for his life, or merely pushing his way
through the crowd. For quite a long time he was jammed, helpless, with his arms pinned
against his sides, then he found himself wrestling with a stumpy Burman much stronger



than himself, then a dozen men rolled against him like a wave and drove him deeper into
the heart of the crowd. Suddenly he felt an agonizing pain in his right big toe — someone
in boots had trodden on it. It was the Military Police subahdar, a Rajput, very fat,
moustachioed, with his pagri gone. He was grasping a Burman by the throat and trying to
hammer his face, while the sweat rolled off his bare, bald crown. Flory threw his arm
round the subahdar’ s neck and managed to tear him away from his adversary and shout in
his ear. His Urdu deserted him, and he bellowed in Bunnese:

‘Why did you not open fire? ’

For a long time he could not hear the man’s answer. Then he caught it:

‘Hukm ne aya’ — ‘I have had no order! ’

‘Idiot! ’

At this moment another bunch of men drove against them, and for a minute or two they
were pinned and quite unable to move. Flory realized that the subahdar had a whistle in
his pocket and was trying to get at it. Finally he got it loose and blew piercing blasts, but
there was no hope of rallying any men until they could get into a clear space. It was a
fearful labour to struggle our of the crowd — it was like wading neck-deep through a
viscous sea. At times the exhaustion of Flory’s limbs was so complete that he stood
passive, letting the crowd hold him and even drive him backwards. At last, more from the
natural eddying of the crowd than by his own effort, he found himself flung out into the
open. The subahdar had also emerged, ten or fifteen sepoys, and a Burmese Inspector of
Police. Most of the sepoys collapsed on their haunches almost falling with fatigue, and
limping, their feet having been trampled on.

‘Come on, get up! Run like hell for the lines! Get some rifles and a clip of ammunition
each. ’

He was too overcome even to speak in Burmese, but the men understood him and lopped
heavily towards the police lines. Flory followed them, to get away from the crowd before
they turned on him again. When he reached the gate the sepoys were returning with their
rifles and already preparing to fire.



‘The sahib will give the order! ’ the subahdar panted.

‘Here you! ’ cried Flory to the Inspector. ‘Can you speak Hindustani? ’

‘Yes, sir. ’

‘Then tell them to fire high, right over the people’s heads. And above all, to fire all
together. Make them understand that. ’

The fat Inspector, whose Hindustani was even worse than Flory’s, explained what was
wanted, chiefly by leaping up and down and gesticulating. The sepoys raised their rifles,
there was a roar, and a rolling echo from the hillside. For a moment Flory thought that his
order had been disregarded, for almost the entire section of the crowd nearest them had
fallen like a swath of hay. However, they had only flung themselves down in panic. The
sepoys fired a second volley, but it was not needed. The crowd had immediately begun to
surge outwards from the Club like a river changing its course. They came pouring down
the road, saw the anned men barring their way, and tried to recoil, whereupon there was a
fresh battle between those in front and those behind; finally the whole crowd bulged
outwards and began to roll slowly up the maidan. Flory and the sepoys moved slowly
towards the Club on the heels of the retreating crowd. The policemen who had been
engulfed were straggling back by ones and twos. Their pagris were gone and their puttees
trailing yards behind them, but they had no damage worse than bruises. The Civil
Policemen were dragging a very few prisoners among them. When they reached the Club
compound the Burmans were still pouring out, an endless line of young men leaping
gracefully through a gap in the hedge like a procession of gazelles. It seemed to Flory
that it was getting very dark. A small white-clad figure extricated itself from the last of
the crowd and tumbled limply into Flory’s arms. It was Dr Veraswami, with his tie torn
off but his spectacles miraculously unbroken.

‘Doctor! ’

‘Ach, my friend! Ach, how I am exhausted! ’


‘What are you doing here? Were you right in the middle of that crowd? ’



‘I was trying to restrain them, my friend. It was hopeless until you came. But there is at
least one man who bears the mark of this, I think! ’

He held out a small fist for Flory to see the damaged knuckles. But it was certainly quite
dark now. At the same moment Flory heard a nasal voice behind him.

‘Well, Mr Flory, so it’s all over already! A mere flash in the pan as usual. You and I
together were a little too much for them — ha, ha! ’

It was U Po Kyin. He came towards them with a martial air, carrying a huge stick, and
with a revolver thrust into his belt. His dress was a studious negligee — singlet and Shan
trousers — to give the impression that he had rushed out of his house post-haste. He had
been lying low until the danger should be over, and was now hurrying forth to grab a
share of any credit that might be going.

‘A smart piece of work, sir! ’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Look how they are flying up the
hillside! We have routed them most satisfactory. ’

‘WE! ’ panted the doctor indignantly.

‘Ah, my dear doctor! I did not perceive that you were there. It is possible that YOU also
have been in the fighting? YOU — risking your most valuable life! Who would have
believed such a thing? ’

‘You’ve taken your time getting here yourself! ’ said Flory angrily.

‘Well, well sir, it is enough that we have dispersed them. Although,’ he added with a
touch of satisfaction, for he had noticed Flory’s tone, ‘they are going in the direction of
the European houses, you will observe. I fancy that it will occur to them to do a little
plundering on their way. ’

One had to admire the man’s impudence. He tucked his great stick under his arm and
strolled beside Flory in an almost patronizing manner, while the doctor dropped behind,
abashed in spite of himself. At the Club gate all three men halted. It was now
extraordinarily dark, and the moon had vanished. Low overhead, just visible, black
clouds were streaming eastward like a pack of hounds. A wind, almost cold, blew down



the hillside and swept a cloud of dust and fine water-vapour before it. There was a sudden
intensely rich scent of damp. The wind quickened, the trees rustled, then began beating
themselves furiously together, the big frangipani tree by the tennis court flinging out a
nebula of dimly seen blossom. All three men turned and hurried for shelter, the Orientals
to their houses, Flory to the Club. It had begun raining.


CHAPTER 23

Next day the town was quieter than a cathedral city on Monday morning. It is usually the
case after a riot. Except for the handful of prisoners, everyone who could possibly have
been concerned in the attack on the Club had a watertight alibi. The Club garden looked
as though a herd of bison had stampeded across it, but the houses had not been plundered,
and there were no new casualties among the Europeans, except that after everything was
over Mr Lackersteen had been found very drunk under the billiard-table, where he had
retired with a bottle of whisky. Westfield and Verrall came back early in the morning,
bringing Maxwell’s murderers under arrest; or at any rate, bringing two people who
would presently be hanged for Maxwell’s murder. Westfield, when he heard the news of
the riot, was gloomy but resigned. AGAIN it happened — a veritable riot, and he not there
to quell it! It seemed fated that he should never kill a man. Depressing, depressing.
Verrall’s only comment was that it had been ‘damned lip’ on the part of Flory (a civilian)
to give orders to the Military Police.

Meanwhile, it was raining almost without cease. As soon as he woke up and heard the
rain hammering on the roof Flory dressed and hurried out, Flo following. Out of sight of
the houses he took off his clothes and let the rain sluice down on his bare body. To his
surprise, he found that he was covered with bruises from last night; but the rain had
washed away every trace of his prickly heat within three minutes. It is wonderful, the
healing power of rainwater. Flory walked down to Dr Veraswami’s house, with his shoes
squelching and periodical jets of water flowing down his neck from the brim of his Terai
hat. The sky was leaden, and innumerable whirling storms chased one another across the



maidan like squadrons of cavalry. Burmans passed, under vast wooden hats in spite of
which their bodies streamed water like the bronze gods in the fountains. A network of
rivulets was already washing the stones of the road bare. The doctor had just got home
when Flory arrived, and was shaking a wet umbrella over the veranda rail. He hailed
Flory excitedly.

‘Come up, Mr Flory, come up at once! You are just apropos. I was on the point of
opening a bottle of Old Tommy Gin. Come up and let me drink to your health, ass the
saviour of Kyauktada! ’

They had a long talk together. The doctor was in a triumphant mood. It appeared that
what had happened last night had righted his troubles almost miraculously. U Po Kyin’s
schemes were undone. The doctor was no longer at his mercy — in fact, it was the other
way about. The doctor explained to Flory:

‘You see, my friend, this riot — or rather, your most noble behaviour in it — wass quite
outside U Po Kyin’s programme. He had started the SO-CALLED rebellion and had the
glory of crushing it, and he calculated that any further outbreak would simply mean more
glory still. I am told that when he heard of Mr Maxwell’s death, hiss joy was
positively’ — the doctor nipped his thumb and forefinger together — ‘what iss the word I
want? ’

‘Obscene? ’

‘Ah yes. Obscene. It iss said that actually he attempted to dance — can you imagine such a
disgusting spectacle? — and exclaimed, “Now at least they will take my rebellion
seriously! ” Such iss his regard for human life. But now hiss triumph iss at an end. The
riot hass tripped up in mid-career. ’


‘How? ’


‘Because, do you not see, the honours of the riot are not hiss, but yours! And I am known
to be your friend. I stand, so to speak, in the reflection of your glory. Are you not the hero
of the hour? Did not your European friends receive you with open arms when you
returned to the Club last night? ’



‘They did, I must admit. It was quite a new experience for me. Mrs Lackersteen was all
over me. “DEAR Mr Flory”, she calls me now. And she’s got her knife properly in Ellis.
She hasn’t forgotten that he called her a bloody hag and told her to stop squealing like a
Pig-’

‘Ah, Mr Ellis iss sometimes over-emphatic in hiss expressions. I have noticed it. ’

‘The only fly in the ointment is that I told the police to fire over the crowd’s heads
instead of straight at them. It seems that’s against all the Government regulations. Ellis
was a little vexed about it. “Why didn’t you plug some of the b — s when you had the
chance? ” he said. I pointed out that it would have meant hitting the police who were in
the middle of the crowd; but as he said, they were only niggers anyway. However, all my
sins are forgiven me. And Macgregor quoted something in Latin — Horace, I believe. ’

It was half an hour later when Flory walked along to the Club. He had promised to see
Mr Macgregor and settle the business of the doctor’s election. But there would be no
difficulty about it now. The others would eat out of his hand until the absurd riot was
forgotten; he could have gone into the Club and made a speech in favour of Lenin, and
they would have put up with it. The lovely rain streamed down, drenching him from head
to foot, and filling his nostrils with the scent of earth, forgotten during the bitter months
of drought. He walked up the wrecked garden, where the mali, bending down with the
rain splashing on his bare back, was trowelling holes for zinnias. Nearly all the flowers
had been trampled out of existence. Elizabeth was there, on the side veranda, almost as
though she were waiting for him. He took off his hat, spilling a pool of water from the
brim, and went round to join her.

‘Good morning! ’ he said, raising his voice because of the rain that beat noisily on the low
roof.

‘Good morning! ISN’T it coming down? Simply PELTING! ’

‘Oh, this isn’t real rain. You wait till July. The whole Bay of Bengal is going to pour
itself on us, by instalments. ’



It seemed that they must never meet without talking of the weather. Nevertheless, her
face said something very different from the banal words. Her demeanour had changed
utterly since last night. He took courage.

‘How is the place where that stone hit you? ’

She held her arm out to him and let him take it. Her air was gentle, even submissive. He
realized that his exploit of last night had made him almost a hero in her eyes. She could
not know how small the danger had really been, and she forgave him everything, even
Ma Hla May, because he had shown courage at the right moment. It was the buffalo and
the leopard over again. His heart thumped in his breast. He slipped his hand down her
ann and clasped her lingers in his own.

‘Elizabeth — ’

‘Someone will see us! ’ she said, and she withdrew her hand, but not angrily.

‘Elizabeth, I’ve something I want to say to you. Do you remember a letter I wrote you
from the jungle, after our — some weeks ago? ’

‘Yes. ’

‘You remember what I said in it? ’

‘Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t answer it. Only — ’

‘I couldn’t expect you to answer it, then. But I just wanted to remind you of what I said. ’

In the letter, of course, he had only said, and feebly enough, that he loved her — would
always love her, no matter what happened.
They were standing face to face, very close
together. On an impulse — and it was so swiftly done that afterwards he had difficulty in
believing that it had ever happened — he took her in his arms and drew her towards him.
For a moment she yielded and let him lift up her face and kiss her; then suddenly she
recoiled and shook her head. Perhaps she was frightened that someone would see them,
perhaps it was only because his moustache was so wet from the rain. Without saying



anything more she broke from him and hurried away into the Club. There was a look of
distress or compunction in her face; but she did not seem angry.

He followed her more slowly into the Club, and ran into Mr Macgregor, who was in a
very good humour. As soon as he saw Flory he boomed genially, ‘Aha! The conquering
hero comes! ’ and then, in a more serious vein, offered him fresh congratulations. Flory
improved the occasion by saying a few words on behalf of the doctor. He painted quite a
lively picture of the doctor’s heroism in the riot. ‘He was right in the middle of the
crowd, fighting like a tiger,’ etc. , etc. It was not too much exaggerated — for the doctor
had certainly risked his life. Mr Macgregor was impressed, and so were the others when
they heard of it. At all times the testimony of one European can do an Oriental more good
than that of a thousand of his fellow countrymen; and at this moment Flory’s opinion
carried weight. Practically, the doctor’s good name was restored. His election to the Club
could be taken as assured.

However, it was not finally agreed upon yet, because Flory was returning to camp. He set
out the same evening, marching by night, and he did not see Elizabeth again before
leaving. It was quite safe to travel in the jungle now, for the futile rebellion was
obviously finished. There is seldom any talk of rebellion after the rains have started — the
Burmans are too busy ploughing, and in any case the waterlogged fields are impassable
for large bodies of men. Flory was to return to Kyauktada in ten days, when the padre’s
six-weekly visit fell due. The truth was that he did not care to be in Kyauktada while both
Elizabeth and Verrall were there. And yet, it was strange, but all the bitterness — all the
obscene, crawling envy that had tonnented him before — was gone now that he knew she
had forgiven him. It was only Verrall who stood between them now. And even the
thought of her in Verrall ’s anns could hardly move him, because he knew that at the
worst the affair must have an end. Verrall, it was quite certain, would never marry
Elizabeth; young men of Verrall ’s stamp do not marry penniless girls met casually at
obscure Indian stations. He was only amusing himself with Elizabeth. Presently he would
desert her, and she would return to him — to Flory. It was enough — it was far better than
he had hoped. There is a humility about genuine love that is rather horrible in some ways.

U Po Kyin was furiously angry. The miserable riot had taken him unawares, so far as
anything ever took him unawares, and it was like a handful of grit thrown into the



machinery of his plans. The business of disgracing the doctor had got to be begun all over
again. Begun it was, sure enough, with such a spate of anonymous letters that Hla Pe had
to absent himself from office for two whole days — it was bronchitis this time — to get
them written. The doctor was accused of every crime from pederasty to stealing
Government postage stamps. The prison warder who had let Nga Shwe O escape had
now come up for trial. He was triumphantly acquitted, U Po Kyin having spent as much
as two hundred rupees in bribing the witnesses. More letters showered up on Mr
Macgregor, proving in detail that Dr Veraswami, the real author of the escape, had tried
to shift the blame on to a helpless subordinate. Nevertheless, the results were
disappointing. The confidential letter which Mr Macgregor wrote to the Commissioner,
reporting on the riot, was steamed open, and its tone was so alanning — Mr Macgregor
had spoken of the doctor as ‘behaving most creditably’ on the night of the riot — that U Po
Kyin called a council of war.

‘The time has come for a vigorous move,’ he said to the others — they were in conclave
on the front veranda, before breakfast. Ma Kin was there, and Ba Sein and Hla Pe — the
latter a bright-faced, promising boy of eighteen, with the manner of one who will
certainly succeed in life.

‘We are hammering against a brick wall,’ U Po Kyin continued; ‘and that wall is Flory.
Who could have foreseen that that miserable coward would stand by his friend?
However, there it is. So long as Veraswami has his backing, we are helpless. ’

‘I have been talking to the Club butler, sir,’ said Ba Sein. ‘He tells me that Mr Ellis and
Mr Westfield still do not want the doctor to be elected to the Club. Do you not think they
will quarrel with Flory again as soon as this business of the riot is forgotten? ’

‘Of course they will quarrel, they always quarrel. But in the meantime the harm is done.
Just suppose that man WERE elected! I believe I should die of rage if it happened. No,
there is only one move left. We must strike at Flory himself! ’


‘At Flory, sir! But he is a white man! ’



‘What do I care? I have ruined white men before now. Once let Flory be disgraced, and
there is an end of the doctor. And he shall be disgraced! I will shame him so that he will
never dare show his face in that Club again! ’

‘But, sir! A white man! What are we to accuse him of? Who would believe anything
against a white man? ’

‘You have no strategy, Ko Ba Sein. One does not ACCUSE a white man; one has got to
catch him in the act. Public disgrace, in flagrante delicto. I shall know how to set about it.
Now be silent while I think. ’

There was a pause. U Po Kyin stood gazing out into the rain with his small hands clasped
behind him and resting on the natural plateau of his posterior. The other three watched
him from the end of the veranda, almost frightened by this talk of attacking a white man,
and waiting for some masterstroke to cope with a situation that was beyond them. It was
a little like the familiar picture (is it Meissonier’s? ) of Napoleon at Moscow, poring over
his maps while his marshals wait in silence, with their cocked hats in their hands. But of
course U Po Kyin was more equal to the situation than Napoleon. His plan was ready
within two minutes. When he turned round his vast face was suffused with excessive joy.
The doctor had been mistaken when he described U Po Kyin as attempting to dance; U
Po Kyin’s figure was not designed for dancing; but, had it been so designed, he would
have danced at this moment. He beckoned to Ba Sein and whispered in his ear for a few
seconds.

‘That is the correct move, I think? ’ he concluded.

A broad, unwilling, incredulous grin stole slowly across Ba Sein’s face.

‘Fifty rupees ought to cover all the expenses,’ added U Po Kyin, beaming.

The plan was unfolded in detail. And when the others had taken it in, all of them, even Ba
Sein, who seldom laughed, even Ma Kin, who disapproved from the bottom of her soul,
burst into irrepressible peals of laughter. The plan was really too good to be resisted. It
was genius.



All the while it was raining, raining. The day after Flory went back to camp it rained for
thirty-eight hours at a stretch, sometimes slowing to the pace of English rain, sometimes
pouring down in such cataracts that one thought the whole ocean must by now have been
sucked up into the clouds. The rattling on the roof became maddening after a few hours.
In the intervals between the rain the sun glared as fiercely as ever, the mud began to crack
and steam, and patches of prickly heat sprang out all over one’s body. Hordes of flying
beetles had emerged from their cocoons as soon as the rain started; there was a plague of
loathly creatures known as stink-bugs, which invaded the houses in incredible numbers,
littered themselves over the dining-table and made one’s food uneatable. Verrall and
Elizabeth still went out riding in the evenings, when the rain was not too fierce. To
Verrall, all climates were alike, but he did not like to see his ponies plastered with mud.
Nearly a week went by. Nothing was changed between them — they were neither less nor
more intimate than they had been before. The proposal of marriage, still confidently
expected, was still unuttered. Then an alarming thing happened. The news filtered to the
Club, through Mr Macgregor, that Verrall was leaving Kyauktada; the Military Police
were to be kept at Kyauktada, but another officer was coming in Verrall’s place, no one
was certain when. Elizabeth was in horrible suspense. Surely, if he was going away, he
must say something definite soon? She could not question him — dared not even ask him
whether he was really going; she could only wait for him to speak. He said nothing. Then
one evening, without warning, he failed to turn up at the Club. And two whole days
passed during which Elizabeth did not see him at all.

It was dreadful, but there was nothing that could be done. Verrall and Elizabeth had been
inseparable for weeks, and yet in a way they were almost strangers. He had kept himself
so aloof from them all — had never even seen the inside of the Lackersteens’ house. They
did not know him well enough to seek him out at the dakbungalow, or write to him; nor
did he reappear at morning parade on the maidan. There was nothing to do except wait
until he chose to present himself again. And when he did, would he ask her to marry him?
Surely, surely he must! Both Elizabeth and her aunt (but neither of them had even spoken
of it openly) held it as an article of faith that he must ask her. Elizabeth looked forward to
their next meeting with a hope that was almost painful. Please God it would be a week at
least before he went! If she rode with him four times more, or three times — even if it
were only twice, all might yet be well. Please God he would come back to her soon! It
was unthinkable that when he came, it would only be to say good-bye! The two women



went down to the Club each evening and sat there until quite late, listening for Verrall’s
footsteps outside while seeming not to listen; but he never appeared. Ellis, who
understood the situation perfectly, watched Elizabeth with spiteful amusement. What
made it worst of all was that Mr Lackersteen was now pestering Elizabeth unceasingly.
He had become quite reckless. Almost under the eyes of the servants he would waylay
her, catch hold of her and begin pinching and fondling her in the most revolting way. Her
sole defence was to threaten that she would tell her aunt; happily he was too stupid to
realize that she would never dare do it.

On the third morning Elizabeth and her aunt arrived at the Club just in time to escape a
violent storm of rain. They had been sitting in the lounge for a few minutes when they
heard the sound of someone stamping the water off his shoes in the passage. Each
woman’s heart stirred, for this might be Verrall. Then a young man entered the lounge,
unbuttoning a long raincoat as he came. He was a stout, rollicking, chuckle-headed youth
of about twenty-five, with fat fresh cheeks, butter-coloured hair, no forehead, and, as it
turned out afterwards, a deafening laugh.

Mrs Lackersteen made some inarticulate sound — it was jerked out of her by her
disappointment. The youth, however, hailed them with immediate bonhomie, being one
of those who are on terms of slangy intimacy with everyone from the moment of meeting
them.

‘Hullo, hullo! ’ he said ‘Enter the fairy prince! Hope I don’t sort of intrude and all that?
Not shoving in on any family gatherings or anything? ’

‘Not at all! ’ said Mrs Lackersteen in surprise.

‘What I mean to say — thought I’d just pop in at the Club and have a glance round, don’t
you know. Just to get acclimatized to the local brand of whisky. I only got here last
night. ’

‘Are you STATIONED here? ’ said Mrs Lackersteen, mystified — for they had not been
expecting any newcomers.


‘Yes, rather. Pleasure’s mine, entirely. ’



‘But we hadn’t heard. . . . Oh, of course! I suppose you’re from the Forest Department?
In place of poor Mr Maxwell? ’


‘What? Forest Department? No fear! I’m the new Military Police bloke, you know. ’
‘The— what? ’

‘New Military Police bloke. Taking over from dear ole Verrall. The dear ole chap got
orders to go back to his regiment. Going off in a fearful hurry. And a nice mess he’s left
everything in for yours truly, too. ’

The Military Policeman was a crass youth, but even he noticed that Elizabeth’s face
turned suddenly sickly. She found herself quite unable to speak. It was several seconds
before Mrs Lackersteen managed to exclaim:

‘Mr Verrall — going? Surely he isn’t going away YET? ’

‘Going? He’s gone! ’

‘GONE? ’

‘Well, what I mean to say — train’s due to start in about half an hour. He’ll be along at the
station now. I sent a fatigue party to look after him. Got to get his ponies aboard and all
that. ’

There were probably further explanations, but neither Elizabeth nor her aunt heard a word
of them. In any case, without even a good-bye to the Military Policeman, they were out
on the front steps within fifteen seconds. Mrs Lackersteen called sharply for the butler.

‘Butler! Send my rickshaw round to the front at once! To the station, jaldi! ’ she added as
the rickshaw-man appeared, and, having settled herself in the rickshaw, poked him in the
back with the ferrule of her umbrella to start him.

Elizabeth had put on her raincoat and Mrs Lackersteen was cowering in the rickshaw
behind her umbrella, but neither was much use against the rain. It came driving towards
them in such sheets that Elizabeth’s frock was soaked before they had reached the gate,



and the rickshaw almost overturned in the wind. The rickshaw- wallah put his head down
and struggled into it, groaning. Elizabeth was in agony. It was a mistake, SURELY it was
a mistake. He had written to her and the letter had gone astray. That was it, that MUST be
it! It could not be that he had meant to leave her without even saying good-bye! And if it
were so — no, not even then would she give up hope! When he saw her on the platfonn,
for the last time, he could not be so brutal as to forsake her! As they neared the station
she fell behind the rickshaw and pinched her cheeks to bring the blood into them. A
squad of Military Police sepoys shuffled hurriedly by, their thin uniforms sodden into
rags, pushing a handcart among them. Those would be VerralTs fatigue party. Thank
God, there was a quarter of an hour yet. The train was not due to leave for another quarter
of an hour. Thank God, at least, for this last chance of seeing him!

They arrived on the platform just in time to see the train draw out of the station and
gather speed with a series of deafening snorts.