Whipping out his sword, which had hitherto been sheathed, he flourished
it in salutation of his friends, and rode straight at a couple of Arabs in his path, loosening his rein, and digging with his spurs as he did so. He knocked one down with his horse’s shoulder, and put aside the spear of the other, as he passed, and without waiting to cut at him, went straight at the zereba hedge. The horse, though covered with foam, had a good bit left in him yet, and rose at it nobly, without an attempt to refuse, and landed safely on the inside. His pursuers came within ten yards. There was a spurt of fire, and four saddles were empty.
The Arab horsemen wheeled round, and the broadsides of the horses presented too fair a mark. Half a dozen of the poor animals were brought down by the bullets, and before they could get away the riders too were slain. Neither did those who in the excitement of the moment had run out from their cover entirely escape; several deliberate shots were aimed at them, and several fresh corpses dotted the plain.
“The curse of Cromwell on them!” cried Grady; “the more you shoot the more there are!”
And it really looked like it. It was a similar phenomenon to that of the wasps in August, when, if you kill one, three come to his funeral. The man who had occasioned this commotion was carried by his horse safely over the zereba hedge, as has been said. Directly he landed he found himself on the edge of the trench, and this, too, the animal cleverly got over.
The rider at once dismounted, and saw Captain Reece before him.
“Rather an unceremonious way of coming into a gentleman’s parlour,” he said; “but I don’t think I have done any damage.”
“Not a bit; and no matter if you had,” said Reece. “We cannot show you much hospitality, I fear, for we are short of everything.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the new-comer, “I beg your pardon if I am wrong, but is not your name Reece?”