The crisis passed. As the din of battle died away it became apparent that a great work of pacification and reconstruction bad to be accomplished. The fight was over, but, none the less, peace, in the sense of the civic good-will, which makes society possible — the friendly order that holds communities together — had to be restored. European and native stood glaring at each other — their swords still stained with kinsman's blood. In some parts of the Empire the entire fabric of British administration had temporarily disappeared. In many, it had been grievously dislocated. The task of governing an alien race — always difficult — had become harder than ever. There were dreadful, maddening recollections which had to be obscured; fierce animosities to be assuaged, a fierce spirit of revenge to be exorcised. The English were in no placable mood. They had been stirred by an agony which had gone to their very heart's core. They had suffered long and acutely, again and again, with little to support them but a stern purpose of vengeance or the desperate resolve to sell their lives as dearly as possible. They had fought against odds, which seemed to render destruction inevitable. There had been the supreme efforts of daring, of endurance — long, staggering marches under the cruel Indian sun — desperate encounters — the hair-breadth escapes of some, the tragic end of others, the suffering of all. It was difficult for men, with such experiences fresh in their minds, to pass to the tame legality of peaceful existence and to regard their recent antagonists with
