The tall, thin figure stopped short in front of the burning building, to gaze down wonderingly.
“Drummond—Scotch coward!” roared a voice, and a yell of execration burst forth.
Just at that moment, from behind an angle of the building, four of the Ghazis, who had lain hidden there and escaped the deadly fire, rushed forth yelling and waving their swords as they made for the figure standing apparently beyond the reach of help.
“Quick, some one—fire, fire!” shouted Roberts.
The figure heard the cry, and turned just in time to face his enemies, two of whom reached him together, cutting at him with all their might. But, active as a cat, the tall, lithe youth avoided one of his foes by leaping aside, ran the other man through, and swinging round, with a tremendous cut severed the wrist of the wretch he had avoided, when coming at him for a second blow.
The other two did not reach him, for half-a-dozen shots rang out, and the true firing of the boy-regiment was again proved, the two Ghazis leaping high in the air, and falling backward on to the bayonets of the men below. There was another cheer at this, but it was dominated directly after by a renewal of the howl of execration which had broken out before.
The hearer looked for a moment or two puzzled, and hesitated to advance; but the next minute he turned half-face, doubled along the rampart to the steps, and descended to the court, passing coolly among the men where Colonel Graves was standing giving orders.
“Mr Drummond,” he said, “I am told that you left your men in a way that disgraces a British officer.”
“That I didn’t,” cried the young man indignantly. “I heard you say that if we only had light we could see to fire, or something of that sort.”
“Yes, sir, I did,” said the Colonel sternly.