ung a word of command to his men.

A clatter of hoofs heralded arrivals--Elton and the Superintendent of
Police with orders for an immediate advance. A huge mob, headed by
students, was pouring along the Circular Road. The police were powerless
to hold them; and at all costs they must be prevented from debouching
on to the Mall. It was brisk work; but the squadron reached the critical
corner just in time.

A sight to catch the breath and quicken the pulses--that surging sea of
black heads, uncovered in token of mourning; that forest of arms beating
the air to a deafening chorus of orthodox lamentation; while a portrait
of Ghandi, on a black banner, swayed uncertainly in the midst.

A handful of police, shouting and struggling with the foremost ranks,
were being swept resistlessly back towards the Mall--the main artery of
Lahore; and a British police officer on horseback was sharing the same
fate. Clearly nothing would check them save that formidable barrier of
cavalry and armoured cars.

At sight of it they halted; but disperse and return they would not. They
haggled; they imposed impossible conditions; they drowned official
parleyings in shouts and yells.

For close on two hours, in the blazing sun, Lance Desmond and his men
sat patiently in their saddles--machine-guns ready in the cars behind
them--while the Civil Arm, derided and defied, peacefully persuaded
those passively resisting thousands that the Mall was not deemed a
suitable promenade for Lahore citizens in a highly processional mood.

For two hours the human tide swayed to and fro; the clamour rose and
fell; till a local leader, after much vain speaking, begged the loan of
a horse, and headed them off to a mass meeting at the Bradlaugh Hall.

The cavalry, dismissed, trotted back to the gardens, to remain at hand
in case of need.

What the Indian officers and men thought of it all, who shall guess?
What Lance Desmond thought, he frankly imparted to Roy.

"A fine exhibition of the masterly inactivity touch!" said he, with a
twitch of his humorous lips. "But not exactly an edifying show for our
men. Wonder what my old Dad would think of it all? You bet there'll be a
holy rumpus in the city to-night."

"And then----?" mused Roy, his imagination leaping ahead. "This isn't
the last of it."

"The last of it--will be bullets, not buckshot," said Lance in his
soldierly wisdom. "It's the only argument for crowds. The soft-sawder
lot may howl 'militarism.'