The bullets flew about him like hail, but he sat unharmed and as cool as if he knew the leaden hail could not hurt him.
On came the legions from Fashoda.
But it was evident that they were disheartened.
“Who is that white man?” asked Max.
“Hubert Ponsonby,” answered one of the Mahdists.
“An Englishman?”
“Yes.”
“It is the same. He cheated my father’s firm. I wondered what had become of him. Wonder if he knows me? It is three years since we met, and I was only sixteen then.”
Max thought all this quicker than the pen can write the words.
He called his men to follow him, and swinging his scimiter above his head dashed into the very midst of the attacking force.