As the ensign pressed his hands to his side and dropped to the earth with a feeble moan, the screaming and jabbering of the by-standers ceased as if by magic. Even the mullah and his disciples drew back appalled at what they had done, while the more timid of the crowd fled to their homes in dread of the consequences and the sure wrath of the sahibs, fearing lest vengeance should fall on innocent and guilty alike for this murder of a white man. The merchants before whose shops the act had been committed wrung their hands in despair, shrieking imprecations down upon the heads of the fanatics, who stood gazing at their handiwork.
The mullah’s hesitation lasted but a second. He turned towards the trembling girl, and called to his abettors:
“Finish off the lad while I slay the woman!”
Ethel Woodburn was a soldier’s daughter: she had more than once looked danger in the face bravely and calmly. Had she been alone she might have hesitated, or had her companion been in a condition to protect her she might have relied on him. But, seeing the boy of whom she was so fond stretched at her feet, cruelly wounded and helpless, and at the mercy of these madmen, her instinct prompted her to do the right thing without a moment’s hesitation, and she blessed the father who had taught her to carry and use a pistol.
The little weapon was hardly more than a toy, but it checked the assassins sufficiently to enable her to bend down swiftly and snatch Ted’s sword from its scabbard. The murderer was but a pace away when she pulled the trigger and stepped back. He fell, writhing, the bullet in his chest. The second received the point of the sword under his arm-pit as he raised his hand to strike. The third assailant, dazed by the blow from Ted’s fist, had now risen, and was hesitating as to his next step, when a couple of native police, attracted by the report and noise, ran up, and, being Sikhs, they had no hesitation in securing the uninjured Mohammedan, and they also prevented the crowd from carrying off the wounded Wahabis.[1]
[1] The most fanatical and implacable Moslem sect.
Never losing her presence of mind, Ethel bound the unconscious lad’s wound to stop the bleeding, and ordered the by-standers to carry him to his quarters, where the regimental surgeon attended to the injury. The bangle had disappeared.
A few weeks later, when the injured persons had recovered, the three would-be assassins were tried on the charge of attempted murder, and were sentenced to long terms of imprisonment.
Some time elapsed before Ted was able to get about as usual. Had it not been for the bandage so promptly applied by Ethel he must have bled to death, so she had saved his life in two different ways. During his slow and painful recovery he was nursed untiringly by his new sister; and though she made light of her heroic deed, the girl’s courage and presence of mind were the chief themes of conversation with the officers who frequently visited his bed-side, and the ensign’s lucky brother became more envied than ever. Ethel invariably checked his expressions of gratitude, and would not allow him to talk about the incident.
“Bosh, Ted!” she would say; “I was in such a state of abject fear that I didn’t know what I was doing. I only shot the man because my hand trembled so that the trigger went off, and he happened to be in front.”