The light from behind him flashed into the cold eyes.
"Not fit? I'm more fit than those arm-chair soldiers." A wintry smile quivered under the grey moustache. "You were always confoundedly interfering, Major Tristram."
"What do you mean to do?"
"Take command of my regiment." He turned his back on them. Arabella, still panting and covered from head to foot in mud, had drawn his attention. "Your horse, Major, I am sure? Your mounts were always a disgrace to your service. Saddleless, too? However—better than nothing. Help me up——"
He was obeyed. They might have thrown themselves on him—held him back by sheer force, but they could not. He had taken command. Dr. Martin wrung his hands as though his own death were not howling at him within a couple of hundred yards.
"It's impossible—the man was paralysed half an hour ago—he ought not to be able to stand. If you allow him to go, I won't take the responsibility——"
Mrs. Compton shook him by the arm. Her eyes were shining like two points of fire.
"Shut up—don't you see—he's the Bagh Sahib—he can do things we can't—it's our only chance."
Bagh Sahib rode down the avenue at a walk. He did not hurry, though the sinister light swept down on him amidst a pandemonium of rattling drums and trumpet calls. His face was resolute—no longer brutal—and the smile lingered at his lips. It was as though the coming encounter amused him. He did not look to see whether he was followed.
The men he had commanded looked at one another. Compton fingered the revolver which he had retrieved. He glanced at his wife, and she nodded.