ithout making him the
confidant of all that had passed? And how could he relate to any one
that Katrine had been wandering about the house in the middle of the
night? What would Mr Girtle say? Would he think it was somnambulism?

No; he could not ring. It was impossible; and all the while there was
that strange noise outside, muffled by the curtain.

He walked cautiously through the intense darkness towards the window,
till he could touch the curtain, and then, passing to the left, he
softly drew it a little inward, and looked out.

It was almost as dark out there as in; but there was a faint glow from
the lamps beyond the tall houses that closed in the back, and against
this he could dimly see the figure of a man, standing on the sill,
while, more indistinctly and quite low down, there were the heads and
shoulders of two more.

It seemed to him that the man standing on the sill was trying to pass
some instrument through between the two sashes, so as to force back the
window-catch.

What should he do?

Give the alarm down-stairs he could not, without compromising Katrine.

Alarm the nocturnal visitors?

That would be to give up a chance of getting hold of the clue.

What should he do?

Be a coward, or, now that the opportunity had come, make a bold effort
to capture these intruders?

Three to one. Yes; but he was in the fort, and they had to attack, and
could he secure one, bribery or punishment would make him tell all.

There was the sound going on at the window, which was resisting the
efforts, and, with palpitating heart and heavy breathing, Capel asked
himself the questions again. Should he be cowardly, or brave, and make
a daring effort to gain that which was his, from the information these
people could give?

There was a grating and clicking still going on as he stepped cautiously
across the room, the sound guiding him to the stand where his uncle's
old East India uniform and accoutrements were grouped, and the next
minute his hands rested upon a pistol.

Useless, for it was old-fashioned and uncharged.

That was better! His hand touched the ivory hilt of the curved sabre.

For a time the blade refused to leave its sheath; then it gave way a
little, and he drew it forth, laid the scabbard on the floor, passed his
hand through the wrist-knot, and thought that he would have to strike
hard, for a cavalry sabre is generally round-edged and blunt.

As he thought of this, he touched the edge