“Hah!” ejaculated Gedge. “It’s very horrid, sir, but it was their turn, and our lads can shoot. Come on, sir. I think we shall do it now.”
He started off towards the body of their friends, who were coming rapidly on, but before they had gone a score of yards the firing from the enemy recommenced, and—spat! spat!—the bullets struck the stones close at hand.
“Oh, I say, sir, this is too bad!” groaned Gedge. “I did think we should do it now. Never mind. Britons never shall be slaves, and I will do it after all.”
There was a rattling fire opened at once on the sides of the gorge, completely crushing that of the hill-men; and a few minutes after, as Gedge tramped on with his load, it was to be met by a burst of cheers, and a score of his comrades came racing on to his help. It was just then that a final shot came from somewhere behind, and poor Gedge started violently, staggered forward, and the next moment he would have gone down heavily with his burden but for the ready help of a dozen willing hands.
Directly after a distant cheering was heard. Roberts and his company were coming back.
Chapter Twelve.
Wounds.
The enemy had been driven off with heavy loss, but the little victory had been dearly-won. Several men had been wounded, and most serious to all seemed to be the fact that among them was the gallant young officer who was liked by every man in the regiment. So it was that the march back to the great fort was made in silence; and when a few of the enemy, encouraged by what they looked upon as a retreat, hung about the rear and harassed the retiring column with shots from the heights, they paid dearly for being so venturesome. For Captain Roberts, leaving a little party in hiding to wait till the enemy showed in their pursuit, listened with a grim smile upon his lip till there was a sudden outburst of firing, and then tramped on with the remainder of his company, keeping as much as he could by the mule ambulance which was bearing his friend back to the fort.