Bang! A bullet whizzed suddenly by Iris' head; and Anstice pulled her hastily into a safer place.
"Here they come back again!" His tone was almost boyishly gleeful. "Well, we're ready for 'em—eh, Hassan?"
The Arab, who was firing as steadily as though at a pigeon-shooting match, nodded, his white teeth flashing out in a merry grin; and as the Bedouins, taking heart, recommenced their attack, the two men, native and Englishman, turned back to their task with renewed vigour.
Neither Iris nor Anstice ever had a very clear recollection of the next ten minutes. It was an inferno, a babel, a confusion of shots and yells and angry clamour; but beyond a slight, flesh wound sustained by Hassan neither of the defenders sustained any casualties; and had their ammunition been as plentiful as their courage was high there would have been no doubt as to the ultimate issue.
Suddenly Anstice turned to Iris with a question on his lips; and her face paled as she replied:
"Not much, now. I think—only enough for three more rounds." She spoke steadily.
"I see. And then——" He broke off, handing her the empty revolver he held.
"And then?" She breathed the question softly; but there was no fear in her face.
"And then—I am not quite clear what happens then." He looked at her more searchingly. "Mrs. Cheniston, what do you say—then? I'm ready, as you know, to die for you, but"—he paused, then resumed in a rather hoarse tone—"if I die what will become of you? I suppose"—he faltered, and his lips were dry, but some inward impulse drove him on—"I suppose you would not wish me to—save—a last cartridge...."
"For me?" Her smile, as she faced him, was splendid. "No, Dr. Anstice, I'm not afraid to die, if I must, at the hands of our enemies. But I will not accept death—from you."