"Yes—Bagh Sahib. You shall see that I can spring still. Ah, you, Heera, so you remember me? In the old days you fought at my heel like the tiger's cub you were. That was at Affra and Burda. Yes—you could fight then—now you can only mutiny like angry children. Then the 65th had a glorious name in India, and I was proud of you—but now—" He thrust the man from him so that he went reeling in the mud. "You cowardly pack—lay down your arms!" he thundered. His command fell like the lash of a whip. The man he had struck leapt at him. He had a revolver in his hand and he pointed it straight at Boucicault's breast.
"Bagh Sahib—you killed my brother——"
"And I shall live to court-martial you, my friend."
"Not now——"
"Shoot then, you cur!"
A splash of fire was flung up in Boucicault's face. Tristram, hiding in the shadow, sprang forward with a smothered cry of horror—then stood still—incredulous. Boucicault had not moved. He looked down into his assassin's stricken, gaping face and laughed.
"You can't touch me, Heera. Your very weapon refuses. We have fought together too often——"
There was a new note in his voice—stern yet curiously caressing. The man reeled, broke down, sobbing thickly.
"Bagh Sahib——!" he moaned. "Bagh Sahib——"
"It is well, Heera. I forgive." He looked over the sea of faces. "You see that you cannot touch me. For the sake of the old days-when you fought gallantly, this night's work is forgotten. Lay down your arms."