And riding in weather such as this, fresher at last, the sun not so fierce that she had to carry a parasol (just a broad-brim bonnet served) was even more delightful. She hoped they’d get a gallop later, for this soft red earth was fine going for her mare. Granite, on the other hand, went well on any going; Georgiana had even managed to give St Alban a run for his money on the wet sand of the Saugor river a few days ago.

So they went at a trot for the next village, and found it practically empty but for dogs and an old man selling sweet lime. St Alban bought up most of the limes, while the syce asked about the ferry.

There was one a couple of cos straight ahead – four, perhaps five miles, said the man.

St Alban nodded. ‘That’s within reach. How many horses will it take?’

The syce frowned. ‘Sahib?’

He tried again, in Hindoostanee.

‘Sahib, it is for horses,’ replied the syce, puzzled. (Had he not said that already?)

‘No, what I mean … Curse it; Miss Hervey, can you help? I wish only to know how many horses the ferry can take at a single crossing, for if it can’t take us all …’

‘Accha,’ she said assuredly, then rattled off the question with such clarity that the syce had no need to elaborate.

The sweet-lime-seller replied to her direct.

‘It is a large ferry,’ she told St Alban. ‘We shall all be able to cross together.’

‘Thank you, Miss Hervey; I’m obliged.’

The lime-seller glanced left and right, then spoke to her again, in a low voice.

Georgiana lowered hers too as she posed his question to St Alban. ‘He asks if you are an officer of the British king.’

St Alban smiled at him civilly. ‘You may tell him “yes”, of course.’

She did, and the lime-seller nodded and then lowered his voice to a whisper.

The syce looked anxious, unable to catch much.

Georgiana looked confident, asked the man a question or two in clarification, and at length turned again to St Alban. ‘He says he is very glad to see you, for there is no kotwal – policeman – here any more, and there is no one who will protect honest men. He says that a short time ago, this very morning, a large band of dacoits passed though – twenty, perhaps thirty men, not from these parts – carrying much baggage. All the people of the village ran into the fields at their approach, but he could not because he is old and infirm. They would have plundered the village, he says, but they seemed in a hurry to be on. He believes they are phansigars.’

So complete was the report that St Alban had no question to ask of their informer, only of himself: what might they do about it?

‘Thank him for his information, Miss Hervey. Tell him he’s an honest as well as a brave man.’