"Lo here comes old Fâtma's Shumsha-deen," whispered other women, peeping through other chinks. "He looks well for sure; better by far than Murri-am's Faiz-Ahmud for all his new gold shoes!"
And those two, daughter and mother-in-law, huddled in unaccustomed embrace to see the last of their martyr through the only convenient crack, felt a glow of pitiful pride before they fell a-weeping and a-praying the old pitiful prayer of quarrelers that God would be good to His own.
There were thousands in Delhi about sunsetting on the 1st of August praying that prayer, though there were hundreds who held aloof, talking learnedly of the House of Protection as distinguished from the House of the Enemy, as they listened to the evening call to prayer. How could there be Holy War, when that had echoed freely during the British rule? And Mohammed Ismail, listening to their arguments feverishly, knew in his heart that they were right.
But the old Shumsha-deens did not split hairs. So as the sun set they went forth in thousands and the gates were closed behind them; for they were to conquer or die. They were to hurl themselves recklessly on the low breastworks which now furrowed the long line of hill. Above all, on that which had crept down its side to a ruined temple within seven hundred yards of the Moree Bastion.
So, about the rising of the moon, two days from full, began such a cannonading and fusillading as was not surpassed even on that final day when the Ridge, taking similar heart of grace, was to fling itself against the city.
Major Erlton, off duty but on pleasure in the Saming-House breastwork, said to his neighbor that they must be mad, as a confused wild rush burst from the Moree gate. Six thousand or so of soldiers and Shumsha-deens with elephants, camels, field-pieces, distinct in the moonlight. And behind them came a hail of shell and shot, with them a rain of grape and musket-balls. But above all the din and rattle could be heard two things: The cries of the muezzins from the minarets, chanting to the four corners of Earth and Sky that "Glory is for all and Heaven for those who bleed," and an incessant bugling.
"It's that man in front," remarked Major Erlton. "Do you think we shall manage, Reid? There's an awful lot of them."
Major Reid looked round on his little garrison of dark faces; for there was not an Englishman in the post; only a hundred quaint squat Ghoorkas, and fifty tall fair Guides from the Western frontier.
"We'll do for just now, and I can send for the Rifles by and by. There's to be no pursuit, you know. The order's out. Ought to have been out long ago. Reserve your fire, men, till they come close up."
And come close they did, while Walidad Khân, fierce fanatic from Peshawur, and Gorakh-nâth, fiercer Bhuddist from Nepâl, with fingers on trigger, called on them jibingly to come closer still; though twenty yards from a breastwork bristling with rifles was surely close enough for anyone? But it was not for the bugler who led the van, sounding assemblies, advances, doubles; anything which might stir the hearts behind.