They raced on for another mile or more. A bullet whistled over their heads. Quest tightened his reins.
“No good,” he sighed. “We’d better stay and fight it out, Professor. Stick close to me, Lenora.”
They drew up and hastily dismounted. The Mongars closed in around them. A cloud had drifted in front of the moon, and in the darkness it was almost impossible to see their whereabouts. They heard the Chief’s voice.
“Shoot first that dog of a Craig!”
There was a shriek. Suddenly Feerda, breaking loose from the others, raced across the little division. She flung herself from her horse.
“Tell my father that you were not faithless,” she pleaded. “They shall not kill you!”
She clung to Craig’s neck. The bullets were beginning to whistle around them now. All of a sudden she threw up her arms. Craig, in a fury, turned around and fired into the darkness. Then suddenly, as though on the bidding of some unspoken word, there was a queer silence. Every one was distinctly conscious of an alien sound—the soft thud of many horses’ feet galloping from the right; then a sharp, English voice of command.
“Hold your fire, men. Close into the left there. Steady!”
The cloud suddenly rolled away from the moon. A long line of horsemen were immediately visible. The officer in front rode forward.
“Drop your arms and surrender,” he ordered sternly.