“At Lucknow, with your own battalion.”
“Well, I’m—beg pardon, sir, but are you the Lieutenant Dalroy who rode the winner of the Civil Service Cup?”
“Yes, the Maharajah of Chutneypore’s Diwan.”
“Good enough! You understand, sir, I had to ask. Will you take command, sir?”
“No indeed, corporal. I shall only humbly advise. But we must rescue the lady.”
“I heard and saw all that passed, sir. The Germans are mounted. The lady’s in the car. We were watching through a hole in the roof. The last man remained there so as to warn us if any of ’em came this way. As you know their lingo, sir, I recommend that when we creep out you tell ’em to dismount. They’ll do it like a shot. Then we’ll rush ’em. Here’s the officer’s pistol. You might take care of the shuffer and the chap by his side.”
“Excellent, corporal. Just one suggestion. Let half of your men steal round to the rear, whether or not the troopers dismount. They should be headed off from Oombergen, the village near here, where they have two squadrons.”
“Right, sir.—Smithy, take the left half-section, and cut off the retreat on the left.—Ready, sir?—Douse that glim!”
Out went the torch. Fourteen shadows flitted forth into the darkness and rain. The car, with its staring head-lights, was drawn up about thirty yards away, and somewhat to the left. On both sides and in rear were grouped the hussars, men and horses looming up in spectral shapes. The raindrops shone like tiny shafts of polished steel in the two cones of radiance cast by the acetylene lamps.