“I will hold my tongue directly,” I cried; “but tell me this—were you at the fight?”
“Oh no; I was far away, and the rajah summoned me here to attend on you.”
“Rajah? What rajah?”
“His highness, my master.”
“What!” I cried excitedly. “Then I am a prisoner?”
“Yes, sahib. You were cut down in the battle a week ago.”
A low expiration of the breath, which sounded like a sigh, was the only sound I uttered as I lay back, weak, faint, utterly astounded by the news. A prisoner—cut down a week ago. Then the troop; where was the troop? If I was made a prisoner, had the guns been taken?
A cold chill of despair ran through me as those crushing thoughts occurred, and in imagination I saw our men surrounded and slaughtered, perhaps mutilated, the guns taken, and the fight of that day a tremendous victory for the enemy.
But after a time a better way of thinking came over me when I was alone; for, after a grave smile, the doctor had bowed and left the tent.
It was a daring, desperate charge I felt, but the only thing Brace could do under the circumstances; and he must have cut his way through. He could not turn and retreat, for it would have looked like being afraid of the sowars; and surely, I thought, it was not in them to overcome our brave little troop even if they were ten times the number.