"Nothing will persuade me to move," stubbornly reiterated the duffadar, devoutly praying that no one else would insist on sharing his bed of glory.
The English soldiers could now be heard talking plainly, and one, speaking louder than the rest, said, "Cease firing, fix bayonets, charge!" A loud hurrah! sounded, and then Faiz Talab found himself alone on his side of the wall. That was all very well, but it was not of much avail to have escaped so far, to end his days with eighteen inches of a British bayonet through his best embroidered waistcoat. If it had been any Indian regiment, or, better still, his own regiment, the Guides, he could at once have secured safety by declaring who he was. But with British soldiers, none of whom would probably understand a word he said, and all heated with the excitement of battle, he might get the bayonet first and enquiry afterwards. However, something had to be done; so up he jumped and, holding up his hands, yelled, "Stop! stop! I am a friend of the British."
"'Ullo, 'ere's another bloomin' ghazi! 'ave at 'im, Bill!" was the brisk rejoinder, in the familiar tongue of a British soldier of the 17th Foot.
And "'ave at 'im" they most assuredly would, had not a British officer arrived in the very nick of time. "He says he is a friend of the British," the officer shouted; "give him quarter till we find out whether he speaks the truth or not."
So reluctantly they made Faiz Talab a prisoner, temporarily postponing the pleasure of sending him to join his numerous friends in the ghazis' Paradise.
But Faiz Talab said to the officer: "May I see you alone? I have something important to tell you."
"Yes, certainly," said the officer; "but mind, one of my men covers you all the time."
And when they drew apart, Faiz Talab took off his shoe; under the lining was a little piece of paper, which he handed to the officer, and on it was written in English: The bearer of this is Duffadar Faiz Talab of the Guides: please give him every assistance.—F.H. Jenkins, Lt.-Col.