"Fool's talk—I don't know the word—hold on, d'you hear? I'll get you out of it. You shall go scot free—only hold on—Ayeshi——"
They fought each other, hand clasped in hand, eye to eye. No two enemies, spurred on by the bitterest hatred, could have fought more grimly.
Tristram laughed.
"I'm stronger than you—always was——" Something flashed up in the light. "Ayeshi——!" he gasped.
A faint smile dawned on the native's face.
"Greater love hath no man——"
The knife fell with maniacal strength. Tristram closed his eyes. No fear, but a sheer incredulous horror lamed all power of self-defence. The second of suspense passed. Nothing—only now there was no weight on the hand still clasped in his, only Arabella again breasted the torrent with the energy of release from a killing burden.
"Ayeshi——!"
No answer—only that mute, blood-stained hand—grown powerless—and one more figure floating to join its brothers on the great, silver-flooded field.
Two boatmen, guiding their flat-bottomed craft between the ruined hovels of Heerut, saw him as he waded waist-deep through the receding flood. The brightening dawn was on his face, but they did not recognize him till he called them by name. Then silently they paddled towards him and dragged him to safety.