Steadily over the arid fields, nearer and nearer to each other. The fields had been cut and carried; the harvest was over; it was nigh time to plough again for a fresh crop----
Of what?
"The Peace of the Unknown be upon you, oh, mine enemy," said Bikrama Singh, when at long last they stood face to face in the open.
"And the Peace of the Most Mighty be on you, my foe," answered Buktiyar Khân.
So for a moment there was silence. Then the Rajput spoke, his old voice full of fire, full of vibration.
"In the old days to which we belong, oh, Mahomedan! did brave men wait for Fate?"
"They did not wait, oh, Hindu," came the answer. "When brave men found sickness or dishonour before them: when there was no longer hope of victory: when that which lay ahead was hateful, and they left sons to carry on the race, did not the ancestors of my race claim of their enemies the glorious gift of battle?"
"They did so claim it, oh, Bikrama Singh! Dost claim it now!"
The reply, quick, vibrant, rang through the moonlight; a veritable challenge.
"Yea, Pathan--robber! thief! I claim it now! Jug-dân, Jug-dân--the Gift of Battle to the Death."