CHAPTER IV
In the guard-house of the old fort where George Barclay had once housed his wounded Arab prisoners, Captain Cameron sat propped up with pillows in a camp bed. It was a cool, dim, white-washed room with thick stone walls, tiny windows high up near the ceiling, and a strong wooden door, that was barred from the inside.
Beside him Pansy sat, pouring out the tea that his orderly had just brought in, and trying to coax an appetite that malaria had left capricious.
Cameron's fever had burnt itself out in twenty-four hours as such fevers will, but it had left the young man very weak and washed out, scarcely able to stand on his legs.
As Pansy sat talking and coaxing, trying to make a sick man forget his sickness, into the stillness of the drowsy afternoon there came a sound that neither of them expected. The thunder of horses' hoofs, like a regiment sweeping towards them.
As far as Cameron knew there were no horses in the district except their own, and they numbered only about half a dozen, not enough to produce anything like that amount of sound.
"What on earth can that be?" he asked, suddenly alert.
Almost as he spoke there was a further sound. A sound of firing. Not a single shot, but a volley. It was followed immediately by cries and screams, and a hubbub of native voices.
Cameron had seen active service. That sound made him forget all about his fever. He knew it for a surprise attack. But who had attacked them, and why, he could not imagine; for the district was peaceful.
Barefooted and in pyjamas, he scrambled out of bed. Swaying, he fumbled under his pillow, and producing a revolver, slipped it into his pocket. Then he staggered across to the door, Pansy at his heels.
When they looked out, it appeared that the stockade was filled with white-robed figures on horseback, lean, brown, hawk-faced men whom Pansy immediately recognised for Arabs. The surprised Hausa soldiers had been driven into one corner of the compound, and back to back were fighting valiantly against overwhelming odds.
Cameron did not wait to see any more. Already a score or more of the wild horsemen were sweeping on towards the old fort where the two stood.
Quick as thought he shut the guardroom door. With hands that shook with fever, he stooped and picked up one of the two iron bars that held it in position.
"Lend me a hand, Pansy," he said sharply.
But Pansy did not need any telling. Already she had seized the other end of the heavy bar. It was in position just as the horde outside reached the guard-house. There was a rattle of arms, the sound of horses being brought sharply to a halt. Then orders shouted in a wild, barbaric language.
There followed a shower of heavy blows upon the door.
When the second iron bar was in position, the boy and the girl stood for a moment and looked at one another.
Pansy was the first to speak.
"What has happened?" she asked.
"It looks like a desert tribe out on some marauding expedition," he replied in as cool a voice as he could muster. "But I'm sure I don't know what they're doing down as far as here."
"My father?" Pansy said quickly.
Cameron made no reply. He hoped the Governor's party had not fallen foul of the marauders. But the fate of Sir George and his staff was not the one that troubled him now. All his thoughts were for the girl he loved, to keep her from falling into the hands of that barbaric horde. And fall she must, dead or alive, before so very long. Strong as the door was, it would not be able to withstand the assaults the Arabs could put upon it.
With a casual air Cameron examined his revolver, to make sure that the five cartridges were complete.
Then he glanced at the girl.
She caught his eye, and smiled bravely. She had grasped the situation also.
"We all have to die sooner or later," she remarked. "I hope it'll be sooner in my case."
Cameron's young face grew even whiter and more drawn; this time with something more than fever—the thought of the task before him.
"Four shots for them, Pansy, and the fifth for you," he answered hoarsely.
"Yes, Bob, whatever you do, don't forget the fifth."
As they talked, thundering blows were falling on the door, filling the room with constantly recurring echoes. But the wood and iron withstood the assault. The noise stopped suddenly. From outside, voices could be heard, evidently discussing what had better be done next.
Pansy and Cameron crossed to the far side of the room, and stood there side by side, their backs against the wall, waiting.
When the blows came again they were different; one heavy, ponderous thud that made the door creak and groan, with a pause between each blow.
"They've got a battering-ram to work now, a tree trunk or something," Cameron remarked. "That good old door won't be able to stand the strain much longer."
Then he glanced at the girl, longing in his eyes.
"Let me give you one kiss, Pansy. A good-bye kiss," he whispered. "It's years since I've kissed you. You're such a one for keeping a fellow at arm's length nowadays."
With death knocking at the door Pansy could not refuse him; this nice boy she had always liked, yet never loved.
She thought of the man who had feasted so freely on her lips that night in the moonlit garden in Grand Canary. She wanted no man's kisses but his, no man's love but his, and his race and colour barred him out from her for ever.
"Kiss me if you like, Bob, for old time's sake. But——"
She broke off, listening to the noises from outside, the heavy, regular thud on the iron-bound door, that had now set the stone walls trembling.
"Now, I shall die a young maid instead of an old one, that's all," she said suddenly.
Cameron watched her, pain on his face; this girl who could face death with a courage that equalled his own.
Then he kissed her tenderly.
"Good-bye, Pansy, little pal," he said hoarsely.
Afterwards there was silence in the room. Between the heavy blows flies droned. Droned as if all were well with the world. As if nothing untoward were happening.
Pansy listened to them, a strained look on her face.
So they would go on droning after she was dead.
How painful the thought would once have been. But the world had grown so tragic since she had met and parted with Raoul Le Breton. Life had become so dreary. There was a constant gnawing pain at her heart now, a pain that Pansy hoped would not follow her from this world into another.
There was a crash of falling timber.
The door gave way suddenly, letting in a flood of wild, white-clad men.
If Cameron thought of anything beyond getting his four shots home among the swarming crowd, it was to wonder why they did not fire, instead of rushing towards him and the girl.
But he did not give much time to the problem.
Within four seconds, four shots had been fired at the onrushing Arabs. And with ruthless joy Cameron noted that four of them fell.
Then he turned his weapon on the girl beside him. Now that her turn had come, Pansy smiled at him bravely with white lips.
But, as Cameron turned, a shot grazed his hand, fired by the leader of the Arabs, who appeared to have grasped what the Englishman was about to do.
The bullet did not reach Pansy's brain as Cameron intended. For the pain of his wound sent his hand slightly downwards just as he pulled the trigger.
His bullet found a resting-place in her heart, it seemed. With a faint gasp she fell as if dead at his feet, a red stain on the front of her white dress.
This contretemps left the onrushing horde aghast. They halted abruptly. In silence they stood staring at the limp form of the prostrate girl, the fear of death upon their swarthy faces.