"What's it mean?" demanded Philip, still puffing and blowing after his exertions.
"Don't know, but I'm going to see."
Geoff leapt across the trench, at the bottom of which lay many wounded and dead Turks, and sped across the open over which our troops had so recently and so gallantly advanced. In the distance he caught sight of his own fine Arab, of Sultan, and, signalling wildly with his hands, managed to attract the attention of the syce in charge of him. The man leapt into the saddle in an instant, and before many minutes had passed, Sultan, blowing and stamping and fidgeting, was pulled up within a few feet of our hero. To change places with the syce was the work of only a few moments, and in a trice Geoff was off again, and leaping his mount over the trenches sped on towards that horseman who had so strangely and so inexplicably burst his way from the group escaping from the British. He had a mile or more to cover, but Sultan made nothing of it. Indeed, in a little while Geoff had drawn quite close to the man, and, swinging Sultan round, was soon riding beside him. At the same time he turned, and drawing his revolver emptied it at the two men still pursuing. Whether his bullets went wide of their mark or narrowly escaped meeting a billet he never knew, but their effect was excellent, for the men pulled in their horses, and, having fired in return without result, swung their mounts round and galloped off to join their companions.
"GEOFF TURNED, AND, DRAWING HIS REVOLVER, EMPTIED IT AT THE TWO MEN STILL PURSUING"
"Who are you?" demanded Geoff, pulling in Sultan.
"An Armenian, Excellency."