He looked down, and on a gun-platform about twenty feet from where he stood were four natives, Hindostanees, as appeared by their costume—the turban, with a couple of scarfs each, one wrapped round the body, and the other over the shoulders, leaving the rest of the body uncovered—holding outstretched a strong horse-rug or blanket, into which they invited him to drop himself, and trust to them and to their united strength for breaking his fall.
'Chullo, sahib—golee chulte!' (come along, sir—the balls are flying) cried one.
'Chullo, bhai—chullo, pultania sahib!' (Come on, brother—come, battalion officer) cried the other three, also in a kind of Hindustani; so Colville never doubted but that they were Hindoos—perhaps camp-followers—and Hindoos they certainly were.
He paused for a moment, irresolute whether to trust to them or—what? Meet death amid the flames which had cut off his retreat, and all chance of rejoining his struggling companions—the flames that were fast ascending in the tower from storey to storey, and would soon be bursting through the flat roof on which he stood, for already the smoke was rising like a black column through the trap-door by which he had reached it.
He failed to see the fierce expression of mockery and derision which was in the dark faces of the four men below, and, deeming it wiser to risk and trust them than to perish amid the flames, he dropped into the rug, in which they received him with shrill yells of triumph, for the plunder of his person, combined with his murder, were their objects.
But Colville was too quick for them. In leaping over he had relinquished the rifle he had been using for his sword, and with the latter, after baffling an attempt they made to muffle or bundle him up in the rug, while they were staggering beneath his weight, he waved them back just as they rushed upon him with their sharp charahs, and such blind hate and fury that they all wounded each other.
He then put his back against the wall, and kept them at bay with his sword-blade and levelled revolver, which, although they knew not, was unfortunately empty.
Streaming with blood from the wounds they had inflicted on each other, they strove to close in upon him, and speedily several budmashes with sword and shield, and other villains variously armed, came upon the scene, and their cries were loud and fierce.
'Astafferullah! put his head in a bhoosa bag, or one stuffed with chillies!'
'No, let it be in a bag of red pepper, and then let him die the death of the doomed!'