For half an hour it was a question of any moment. Master and man were for the time being nothing better than madmen, and the fighting frenzy is wildly infectious.
At last there was a pause. The enemy fell back, and in the momentary silence the sound of distant firing reached the ears of the little band of defenders.
“What's that?” asked Meredith sharply. He looked like one risen from the dead.
“Fighting among themselves,” replied Joseph, who was wiping blood and grime from his eyes.
“Then one of them is fighting with an Express rifle.”
Joseph listened.
“By God!” he shouted, “by God, Mer—sir, we're saved!”
The enemy had apparently heard the firing too. Perhaps they also recognised the peculiar sharp “smack” of the Express rifle amidst the others. There was a fresh attack—an ugly rush of reckless men. But the news soon spread that there was firing in the valley and the sound of a white man's rifle. The little garrison plucked up heart, and the rifles, almost too hot to hold, dealt death around.
They held back the savages until the sound of the firing behind them was quite audible even amidst the heavy rattle of the musketry.
Then suddenly the firing ceased—the enemy had divided and fled. For a few moments there was a strange, tense silence. Then a voice—an English voice—cried: