A nerve-ruining silence, broken only by the moans of the wounded who lay on the floor, followed the shrill outcries. The rebels were baffled but not defeated. Slowly, painfully the minutes dragged, then two black heads showed round the bend, and two spurts of flame flashed out. Before the reports had reached them, Ted and Ambar Singh had pressed their fingers, and two sepoys fell forward on their faces. The defenders were untouched, the rebels having fired at random, and for a while none dared follow their example.
In despair several of the raging mob pushed their musket-barrels round the bend and let fly, in the hope that an occasional bullet out of many might reduce the number of their dogged antagonists. But Ted drew his men back from the doorway until the sepoys were tired of this amusement.
Each rebel urged his neighbour to face the fire of those death-dealing muskets; each man knew that the end was at hand, and preferred to hold himself back that he might share in the plunder. Now that they were no longer a glorious regiment but a mere mob of rebels, none was ready to give his life for the cause. The garrison also knew that the end was drawing near, and were in no way deceived by the momentary calm.
“Hullo!” Ted cried, and stared open-mouthed. “What’s that for?”
A white cloth tied round the barrel of a musket had been poked round the corner.
“A truce, sahibs!” a voice called in Urdu. “We wish to treat with you and save your lives. May I step forward in safety?”
“One man may,” Tynan replied, “but he will be a dead man should there be any sign of treachery.”
“Sahib, there will be none; I give my word of honour.”
So saying, Pir Baksh stepped round the bend, armed only with a smile that he doubtless intended to be ingratiating.
“Ye are gallant warriors,” he began, when Ted, interrupting the flow of words, ordered the rascal to speak in English, not Urdu. The subadar showed the whites of his eyes as he smiled, and grimly shook his head. For the benefit of the Rajputs he resumed in the vernacular: