“That!” cried the officer; and then, in a choking voice, “Why, Gil, my boy, is this you?”
I could not speak, only cling to him who had a thousand times nursed me in his arms.
“Hold up, boy, be a man,” he whispered; but his arms tightened round me. “I thought you were dead, Gil,” he cried excitedly. “But why are you like this?”
“I am a prisoner, father,” I said.
“But the rajah?” he said excitedly. “Where is he?”
“He left here an hour ago to head his men,” I said. “But, father, if you take him, defend him; he has been very good to me.”
“Let’s take him first,” cried my father. “Now, my lads, forward! He must be somewhere in the place.”
“Three cheers for the colonel’s boy!” cried the Irishman. “Your hanner should have been here a bit sooner to see him foight. Hi, Sam Raggett, get up and show the colonel your ear. You’re not half killed yet.”
“Forward!” cried the colonel. Then to the officer with him. “Smith, take charge of my son. A sergeant’s guard, Gil,” he cried from the door. “Take off some of those things. You look like a sepoy chief. It is not safe with the lads like this.”
He hurried after his men, and the young officer held out his hand.