The Star of India

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

He was bareheaded, tall, muscular, and of great strength and activity. Had anything like fair play been shown, he would have vanquished the whole party, but it was clear he had been assailed by the mob, who were determined he should die.

Dr. Avery's bosom heaved with indignation, and it was hard to restrain the impulse to drive his way through the throng to the help of his imperiled countryman, but to do so would have been certain death. Unable to turn his back on the man that was making such a gallant fight for his life, he forced his hand into his pocket and grasped his revolver, in the hope that in the excitement he might fire several shots for his friend, without diverting the furious assault to himself.

So far as could be seen, the Englishman was acting on the defensive. He had no weapons in his hand, but he struck out, dodged and parried with a skill that showed him to be a master of the art of self defense. He would have knocked his assailants over and over but for the obstruction of the crowd behind them. But his blows were terrific, and beyond a doubt he cracked almost every skull against which he drove his fists with such tremendous force and lightning-like rapidity.

All the time the pale faced athlete was retreating or rather trying to retreat, and could he have shaken himself clear of the swarm but for a second, he would have gotten safely away, but he was so hemmed in by his assailants that escape was out of the question.

"God help you!" suddenly exclaimed Dr. Avery, unable to stand idle any longer, "I can't see you murdered like a dog! Out of my path, you infernal devils!"

It is hardly possible that this command, shouted in his own language, was heard by the wretches, most of whom were screeching and shouting themselves, but there were several close at hand who recognized the tongue and saw that another victim had run into their net. These natives, generally so afraid of foreigners, had become impudent and aggressive under the belief that all the infidel Christians were to be exterminated, root and branch, by the sepoys.

Dr. Avery cared nothing now about hiding his identity. He was struggling furiously and fighting his way to the side of his countryman. He was almost, if not quite, his equal in strength and activity, and the two would have made a brave battle with their backs against each other and their arms going like the piston rods of an engine.

The surgeon was forging ahead like a ship struggling in the trough of a sea, when a rasping howl from a score of throats told that he was identified, and the wretches made for him.

At this juncture, the stranger further out in the street did something which he ought to Have done before, though the act was as effective at one time as at another. Finding it impossible to extricate himself from the throng that pressed him so hard, he whipped out his revolver and fired five shots in rapid succession, wheeling quickly on his heel as he did so, by which maneuver he sent the bullets toward as many different points of the compass.

The natives were so plentiful that it was impossible to miss, and they went down like tenpins. The flashing of the weapon in their faces caused a panic for the moment. There was a wild scramble to get away from the desperate man, who had doubtless fired for the very purpose of creating this diversion.