He still waited on his knees, his revolver in his hand. He did not know in the least who these two men were who had appeared just at the very moment when all danger of attack seemed over. It did not appear that there were more than two. He could hear his own six men running towards him—they had heard the sound of firing—and he could hear distinctly on the road the sound of a horse’s hoofs and the tramp of men. It was all right then, and the King had returned. The warm blood poured steadily down his right arm. Suddenly he was conscious that Lechworthy was standing by him. “Are you hurt, Pryce?” Lechworthy was saying anxiously. “Are you hurt?”
“Bit of a scratch,” said Pryce. “Better say nothing to her. Probably looks worse—”
And then he collapsed, just as the King and the patrol entered the garden.
It has already been said that the youngest of the three brothers who led the rebellion had by firing the stores and offices on the beach gained time and a clear road to the King’s house. He had drawn the King and the patrol down from the point which they should have occupied. But he started on his way up to the King’s house with his small following absolutely out of hand. They had triumphed over the white man, the King himself had failed to lay hands on them, they had burnt the King’s stores; and now they would burn the King’s house, and it would all be perfectly easy. They had drunk freely on the lawn of the Exiles’ Club and had found more liquor on the beach. Their leader would have had them go up in silence, without torches, working their way through the thick of the plantation. But they found the road easier, and in their intoxication insisted on treating this last advance as a triumphant procession. Noisy and disorderly, they never noticed that their nominal leader had left them, taking one man with him, and turned into the plantation by the roadside.
These two men advanced parallel with the noisy crowd, but at a long distance from them. And when the rifle fire was drawn, and the attention of the defenders concentrated on the road, they took that chance to rush across the clearing, up the bank, and through the scant hedge into the garden. They knew the game was up. Their one aim was to sell their lives as dearly as might be.
When Pryce came to himself, he lay on his bed. His coat, waistcoat and shirt had been cut off. The early sunlight filtered through the green plaited blinds. There were two dark shadows by the bed, and the shadows slowly became the King and Lechworthy. Pryce, a little surprised to find himself alive, investigated with a slow and feeble movement of his left hand the injuries he had received. When he spoke, his voice sounded so funny, so unlike his voice, that he smiled.
“Who fixed the tourniquet?” he asked.
“That was Hilda,” and then Lechworthy’s voice seemed to become a dull rumble. Pryce caught stray words: “Huddersfield ... ambulance lectures ... Providence.”
And then the King was holding a glass to his lips. Pryce smelled the brandy, and put it aside. He asked for water, and drank eagerly.
“Hilda?” he said.