Bracy’s lips parted, but no sound came.
“No, sir,” panted Gedge; “it was the straight knives did it, not them pretty little blades.”
“I’m glad of that. I was afraid my boys had made a mistake. But who are you?”
“Private Willyum Gedge, in the 404th Fusiliers; and here’s my lieutenant, Mr Bracy, sir. We was coming from the fort to fetch you.”
“Ah!” cried the officer. “How is it with them there?”
“All right, sir; but hard pushed when we come away. Ain’t got such a thing as a doctor about yer, have you?”
“Yes, yes. My boys shall carry you down. All right,” he cried as a bugle rang out from below with the recall; and by that time the little group were surrounded by some twenty of the active Ghoorkhas, for the most part with a begonia-leaved kukri in hand, laughing, chattering, and ready to dance with delight around the two British soldiers they had saved.
Meanwhile their officer was down on one knee rendering first aid to the wounded, the knife of one of the enemy having slashed Bracy’s thigh, which was bleeding profusely; and a havildar of the Ghoorkhas was cleverly bandaging Gedge’s left arm, chattering to him merrily in broken English the while.
“Try and swallow a drop more,” said the officer to Bracy, who was reviving a little, and smiled his thanks, his eyes wandering round directly after in search of something, till a movement on the part of their rescuers enabled him to see Gedge, to whom he feebly held out his hand.
“Much hurt?” he said faintly.