Then it was all wild fury and confusion. Deseret's sword was wonderful, as light as a lath and as sure as death. He was through the smoke, fighting the myriads behind--singlehanded it seemed to him.
--!--!--!--!--he could not tackle the whole Russian army! He whirled the big brown round and plunged back through the smoke, saw the others riding home, and bent and dashed away after them.
He was almost the last. A thunder of hoofs on his flank, and a vicious lance-head came thrusting in between his right arm and his body. His sword swept round backwards--and the Lancer's empty horse raced neck-and-neck with his own, its ears flat to its head, its eyes white with fear.
Then the guns behind opened on them again, and bullets came raining in on each side as well--on Russian Lancers and British Hussars and Dragoons alike.
Jim was swaying in his saddle, he did not know why, But dashing at those guns was one thing, and retiring was another, and the hell-fire had burnt out of him and left him spent.
He saw the long unbroken lines of the Heavies sweeping up to meet and cover them, and wondered dizzily if he could hold on till they came.
There were Lancers ahead of him, thrusting at his men as they rode. A whole bunch of them went down in a heap just in front of him, riddled by the murderous fire of their comrades behind, and he lifted the brown horse over them as if they had been a quick-set.
The Heavies parted to let them through, and the splendid fellow on the thundering big horse at the side there, who stood high in his stirrups cheering on his men, was good old George. There was no mistaking him, he was such a size and weight.
A couple of Lancers, who had been making for Jim, swerved to face the new attack and made for George instead, bold in the advantage of their longer reach. And Jim would have been after them to equalise matters but that it was all he could do to keep his seat.
He saw George rise in his saddle, with his great sabre swinging to the blow. Then a whirling blast of canister shore them all down, and they lay in a heap, men and horses riddled like colanders. And Jim, with a sob, clung to the pommel of his saddle and let the brown horse carry him home.