Slowly—so slowly yet steadily that the movement seemed supernatural—he was lifting himself up. He did not look at her. His gaunt face was tense and absorbed as though the whole being of the man were turned inwards on the contemplation of a miracle. His arms hung straight at his sides. He lifted them—holding them out before him.
"Bagh Sahib!"
He pushed the sheet back and slipped his legs over the edge of the bed. They were mere sticks—fleshless, piteous—yet he stood up swaying like a tall reed in the wind. The woman, huddled on the floor, dragged herself to her feet and stumbled towards him. He put his arm round her shoulders, leaning on her.
"Nelly—poor Nelly—something in my head—it's better—help me——"
It was a child talking—a mumbling, broken appeal. Yet there was a purpose in him stronger than his weakness. He lurched across the room. "Nell—sweetheart—my uniform—my parade—things—my sword——"
"They're here—dear—you can't——"
A shot was fired—this time close at hand. He made an odd little sound like a laugh.
"They've not done with me yet—by the Lord—they shall meet Bagh Sahib again—we'll see who's strongest—even now——" He held out his palsied hands; he was gasping, but it was in the flood-tide of returning life. His eyes shone like a young man's. "Nell—you used to know the way—there wasn't a buckle you couldn't manage—quicker to spot things than a sergeant on parade. No mistakes now—Bagh Sahib never made mistakes—the smartest man in the Indian Army. By Gad—there's the sword—not rusty? No—that's like you—so—now—kiss me——"
Between each sentence there had been a gap of time. She had obeyed him like a woman possessed. Now he stood before her—a ghostly figure in the loose-fitting uniform—the shadow of the man whom she had once loved—but at least the shadow.
She clung to him—half supporting him, herself shaking from head to foot.