The flimsy barriers rocked and gave way before them, and all were inextricably mixed up at once in a deadly hand-to-hand warfare.
Ralph, standing astride the body of his friend, fought like a madman. The ground beneath his feet grew slippery with blood; one—two dacoits fell beneath the desperate blows of his clubbed gun, over which he found that his hands took a better purchase than over the shaft of a spear; but his strength was deserting him, his adherents were falling around him, his head reeled, his sight began to fail him, and the sickness of a fainting fit nearly overpowered him. He believed his last moment was come, when—what sound met his ear? He must be delirious, mad—it could not be an English cheer! It could never be the gallop of horses' feet—many horses, tearing madly along the forest path?
But again it came, nearer and nearer. "Hallo! hallo! Hurrah! There they are!" and a party of horsemen in white uniform dashed upon the scene.
The tide of battle was turned, the dacoits tried to fly; the English police officers rode them down, shot them down, struck them down;—no mercy was shown. The robbers fought like demons, desperate in their turn, but all were killed or taken prisoners in half an hour, bound, cowed, conquered, and the fray was over.
The English officer came up to shake his rescued countrymen by the hand, with frank, hearty greeting on his lip, but Ralph had thrown himself down on the ground, his face buried on the breast of his dead friend, choking with sobs.
Mr. Brudenel, for it was he, felt a moisture arise to his own eyes at the sight. He turned aside, and brushed his hand across them, then knelt by Ralph's side, and laid a kindly hand upon his shoulder.
"I am very sorry," said he; "would to God that I had been here but one hour sooner."
"But one hour, but one little hour," moaned the boy. "Oh, my friend! my dear, true friend!"
"It was the fortune of war, sir," said the officer. "It was the will of God. Be a man, sir; your friend did not suffer."