“Stop, he’s a sahib,” roared the new-comer, and I saw it was Dost.
“Then he’s me prisoner, and that sword’s me loot,” cried the Irishman.
“Stand back!” I roared. “I am Lieutenant Vincent, of Captain Brace’s troop.”
I took off my helmet as I spoke, and the men were convinced.
“Look at that now,” said the Irishman; “jest, too, when I thought I’d got a bit of lovely shpoil.”
At that moment there was a rush of feet, and a tall grey officer hurried in, followed by another, and quite a crowd of men.
“Have you found him?” cried the tall officer.
“Oh, bedad, yis, colonel,” cried the Irishman.
“What! the rajah?”
“Yis, sor. There he is, only he shwears he’s a liftinant in a troop.”