“It’s self-defence, I know. Doctor, where should we have been without you? We owe everything to you.”
“Me?” said Pryce, cheerfully. “Why, I’ve had my hands in my pockets all the time. I haven’t done a blessed thing. I—”
He stopped short. Far away down the road came the sound of rifle-fire.
“What’s that mean, doctor?”
“In all probability it means that the few who escaped from us have had the bad luck to run into Smith and his patrol on their way back to the house. They’ll be here in five minutes. You might go and tell Hilda that the show’s over.”
“I will,” said Lechworthy. He had been much moved. He almost resented the flippancy with which Pryce spoke, though he knew that this flippancy was but part of a mask that hid something fine.
As Lechworthy turned away, Pryce pulled his papers and pouch from his pocket. He could smoke at last. He rolled a cigarette—a cigarette that he was not destined to smoke.
Lechworthy was about twenty yards away when a dark figure rose suddenly from the bushes and made a dash at him with knife raised. Pryce’s revolver was just in time; the man dropped almost at Lechworthy’s feet.
“Run for the house,” shouted Pryce, and at the same moment he was stabbed with two quick thrusts in the back and in the right arm. His revolver dropped on the ground, and he flung himself on it. His assailant rushed on towards Lechworthy, who still stood irresolute.
Pryce raised himself on his knees, taking his revolver in his left hand, less conscious of physical pain than of pleasure in his knowledge that he had made left-hand shooting his speciality. Lechworthy was in the line of fire and he had to be very careful; it was his second shot that brought the native down.