“Hurry on,” he urged. “Mount now, and push the horses for all they’re worth. It’s our only chance.”
And it was done. How—they knew not. Perhaps the animals themselves caught some of the fever heat excitement of being chased, but floundering, plunging, snorting, they found safe, firm foothold at last on the other side, and stood panting, and streaming, and utterly blown. Here was no safety. It would take half an hour at least before they had sufficient go in them to resume a race for life, and the pursuers had time to cross the mud-slide at their leisure.
Mervyn’s heart was filled with black, gloomy despair. It was fated they were not to escape. Well, at the last it would be soon over. With the recollection of that hellish cavern of torture, and the words spoken therein, he had made up his mind that Melian should not fall into their hands. They had shown him what they were capable of, and that was enough. One quick merciful shot for her, and the next for himself, and that the moment he realised that all hope and chances were gone.
“Now,” said Helston Varne. “You press on to the kotal, Mervyn. I’m going to take cover here and keep them back—and directly they get into the mud-slide I’m going to massacre them like holy Shaitan. Jao Hussein Khan. Go on Mervyn,” he added, more peremptorily, seeing him hesitate. “You’ve got to take Miss Seward out of this, and I’ve got plenty of ammunition. I’ll catch you up, by and by.”
“Well, don’t be long,” said the other queerly, as he obeyed.
Now two or three more shots straggled across from beyond. The main body of the pursuers came racing up, urging their steeds mercilessly over the cruel, stony ground. Now they were on the edge of the mud-slide. Wild, yelling, threatening shouts went up from them, as they drew their tulwars and flashed them furiously in the direction of the fugitives. Helston looked back. The result was not unsatisfactory. If only he could hold up these. He would try parley. It would gain a modicum of time.
“Brothers,” he shouted. “Go back. I would not shed your blood, for we have eaten together. But no man reaches this side of the mud-slide alive.”
For answer, a fierce, blood-thrilling yell of vengeance, as they discovered his presence, for they had missed his manoeuvre. And shouting out the torments of hell to which he, and all with him, were destined when once more in their hands, they pushed their steeds furiously into the slough.
In the chaotic splashing and floundering that ensued, Helston’s rifle spoke. The man who rode beside the chief toppled from his saddle. Again came the roaring detonation, tossing to and fro from crag to crag. Another saddle was emptied, but so far, for reasons of his own, the marksman had spared Allah-din Khan. In the sudden confusion, he poured another shot into “the brown,” but nothing seemed available to stop that rush. They were mad with revenge and fanaticism. As a sheer matter of time he would not be able to destroy anything like all of them before they should cross. Well, this time the chief must go. He had been given every chance, and the stake being contested was too great.
“Once more go back!” he shouted. But only a renewed and fiend-like scream came in reply, and horses, floundering fetlock deep, were making surprising headway, and the wild savage faces were alarmingly nearer. He put up the rifle again, and—it swayed in his hands. He could not get the sighting. The earth under his feet was swaying. What did it mean, in Heaven’s name?