The man was an old _sowar_, and the ex-officer of native cavalry knew how enduring was the attachment of this poor convict to home and military service.

Probably at that moment the Mahommedan was praying to the Prophet and his two nephews to aid him in rescuing the sahib and the woman whom the sahib held so dear, for the all-wise and all-powerful Sirkar is very merciful to offending natives who thus condone their former crimes.
But, howsoever willing he might be, what could one man do among so many?
The Dyaks were hostile to him in race and creed, and assuredly infuriated against the foreign devil who had killed or wounded, in round numbers, one-fifth of their total force.

Very likely, the hapless Mussulman would lose his life that night in attempting to bring water to the foot of the rock.
Well, he, Jenks, might have something to say in that regard.

By midnight the moon would illumine nearly the whole of Prospect Park.

If the Mahommedan were slain in front of the cavern his soul would travel to the next world attended by a Nizam's cohort of slaughtered slaves.
Even if the man succeeded in eluding the vigilance of his present associates, where was the water to come from?
There was none on the island save that in the well.