It was necessary to send a message to the Cossack commander. He could not entrust a verbal message to a Chunchuse; he could not dispense at present with Ah-Sam. He must write his proposal, and he had neither paper nor pencil.
"No doubt Mrs. Pottle will have both," he said to himself.
Leaving instructions with the Chunchuses to keep a strict look-out, he hurried up the gully. The ladies must have been alarmed by the firing, and he could fulfil his errand and reassure them at the same time. He spoke to them before he reached the inner barricade, and, when he arrived, found them standing within the line of boulders, ready to meet him. Even Mrs. Pottle was subdued; the terrors of the past half-hour had shaken her. He noticed that she grasped her umbrella.
"Oh, Mr. Fawcett!" she exclaimed; "what has happened?"
"We have beaten off the Russians—once," Bob replied quietly.
"You are not hurt?" said Ethel, leaning towards him, her face very pale.
"No; only one of our party is injured—very slightly. Don't be alarmed. I don't think we shall be troubled any more to-night. I came to borrow some writing materials. Some of the enemy are badly wounded, and I want to send a message to their officer asking him to carry them away."
"Oh, how thoughtful of you! Auntie, a leaf from your block-book. Here is a pencil."
Mrs. Pottle tore a leaf from the book in which she had noted down her impressions of travel in the East, and gave it to Bob.
"Come back soon, Mr. Fawcett," she said. "I am very nervous. That horrid shooting keeps throbbing in my head."