The moon was now rising to silver the dense clouds of smoke which hung above the pillars of flame, and give an additional horror of light to the orgies going on unchecked. It showed him a group of 3d Cavalry troopers galloping madly down the Mall. It showed them the glitter of his buckles, making them shout again:
"To Delhi, brother, to Delhi!"
Not yet. He had not seen the upshot yet. He must go and see what was going on in the lines first. So he struck rapidly across the open as the quickest way. And then behind him, close upon him, came another clatter of hoofs, a very different cry.
"Shâh bash! bhaiyân. Mâro! Mâro!"
Remembering the glitter of his buckles, he turned and ran for the nearest cover. None too soon, for a Mohammedan trooper was after him, shouting "Deen! Deen! Death to the Hindoo pig!" For any cry comes handy when the blood is up and there is a saber in the hand. Soma had to double like a hare, and even so, when he paused to get his breath in a tangle of lime-bushes there was a graze on his cheek. He had judged his distance in one of those doubles a hair's breadth too little. The faint trickle of blood sent a spasm of old inherited race hatred through him. The outcaste should know that the Hindoo pig shot straight. The means of showing this were not far to find in the track of the faithful troop. Five minutes after, Soma, with a musket dragged from beneath something which lay huddled up face down upon Mother Earth, was crouching in a belt of cover, waiting for the troop to come flashing through the glare seeking more work. For there had been yells and screams enough round that bungalow to stop looting there. And as it came number seven bent lower to his saddle bow suddenly, then toppled over with a clang.
"Left wheel! clear those bushes!" came the order sharply. But Soma was too quick for that.
"Close up. Forward!" came the order again, as Captain Craigie's faithful troop went on, minus a man, and Soma, stumbling breathlessly in safety, knew that the die was cast. There was an answering quiver in his veins which comes when like blood has been spilled. He knew his foe now; he could go to Delhi now. And hark! There was a regular rattle of musketry, at last--not the dropping fire of mere butchery, but a regular volley. He gripped his musket tighter and listened: if the battle had begun he must be in it. The air was full of cracklings and hissings--an inarticulate background to murderous yells, terrified screams, horrors without end; but no more volleys came to tell of retribution.
What did it mean? Soma held his breath hard. Hark! what was that? A louder burst of that recurring cry, "To Delhi! to Delhi!" as the last stragglers of the 3d Cavalry, escaping from the lines at the long-delayed appearance there of law and order, followed their comrades' example.
So that the two thousand coming down in force found nothing but the women and children; poor, frightened, terror-struck hostages, left behind, inevitably, in the unforeseen success.
But Soma, knowing nothing of this, waited--that grip on his musket slackening--for the next volley. But none came. Only, suddenly, a bugle call.