“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant coolly; “but you won’t surrender?”
“Not while the cartridges last.”
“Well, there’s enough to account for the lot, sir, if we hand in ours and you do the firing.”
The young officer burst into a forced laugh.
“Why, sergeant,” he cried, “what do you take me for?”
“Soldier of the Queen, sir, ready to show the enemy that our march at the Jubilee wasn’t all meant for show.”
Dickenson was silent for a time.
“Ha!” he said at last, with a sigh. “I want to prove that; but there are times when holding out ceases to be justifiable—fighting becomes mere butchery.”
“Yes, sir, when forty or fifty men surround four and a wounded one, shoot down their mounts so as they can’t retreat, and then try and butcher them. It’s all on their side, sir, not ours; and the men think as I do.”
Dickenson was silent again, lying there with his teeth set and a peculiar hard look in his eyes, such as a man in the flower of his youth and strength might show when he knows the time is fast approaching for everything to end. Meanwhile the two fresh parties that had come on the scene were galloping hard to join the enclosing wings of the first comers, who stood fast, fully grasping what was to follow, and keeping the attention of their prey by firing a shot now and then, not one of which had the slightest effect.