"I thought it was only--a row."
The voice ceased again, the breathings of the tired horses had slackened; there was no sound but that rushing, as of wings, as those two enemies rode side by side, looking ahead. Suddenly Jim Douglas turned.
"You ride nigh four stone heavier than I do, Major Erlton."
The heavy, handsome face came round swiftly, all broken up with sheer passion.
"Do you suppose I haven't been thinking that ever since I saw your cursed face. And you know the country, and I don't. You know the lingo, and I don't. And--and--you're a deuce sight better rider than I am, d----n you! But for all that, it's my chance, I tell you. My chance, not yours."
A great surge of sympathy swept through the other man's veins. But the water was shallowing rapidly. A step or two and this must be decided.
"It's yours more than mine," he said slowly, "but it isn't ours, is it? It's the others', in Delhi."
Herbert Erlton gave an odd sound between a sob and an oath, a savage jag at the bridle as the little Arab, over-weighted, slipped a bit coming up the bank. Then, without a word, he flung himself from the saddle and set to work on the stirrup nearest him.
"How many holes?" he asked gruffly, as Jim Douglas, with a great ache in his heart, left the Belooch standing, and began on the other.
"Three; you're a good bit longer in the leg than I am."