The officer turned upon him fiercely.
“What?—Who are you?”
“Frere, of Gordon’s,” shouted Harry.
“But that black?”
“My brother!”
“Yes,” cried Frank, in honest old English. “I was trying to save this brave man’s life.”
“Then don’t black your face first, youngster, next time,” cried the officer, with a laugh, as he turned to find fresh food for his steel.
But the enemy were flying fast, scattered, and leaving half their force upon the field. The recall was ringing out, and shortly after the English squadrons were making for Khartoum, with their prisoners and prizes, the former including the remains of the Emir’s bodyguard, their captain and six of his followers, wounded to a man.
That night Frank and his companions rested in Khartoum.
It was the day of the oft-told scene when the Sirdar and his staff were gathered around with all the thrilling pomp of a military funeral, to pay the long-deferred honour at their hero’s grave.