Winifred, shivering with fear again, knew not what the man said, but she drew near to Malcolm and whispered:
“Not into their hands, Frank, for God’s sake!”
The movement of her horse’s feet had not passed unnoticed.
“Be sharp, there!” snarled the Pathan again. “They are not far off, and only six of them. Shout, you on the right when you are on the bank.”
“None can pass between me and the stream,” replied a more distant voice.
“Forward, then! Keep line! Not too fast, you near the wall.”
Frank loosened his sword from its fastenings and took a revolver in his left hand, in which he also held the reins. He judged Abdul Huq to be some fifty yards distant, and he was well aware that the fog became thinner with each yard as he turned his back on the river.
“Take Winifred back to the angle of the wall,” he whispered to Mayne. “You will find a budgerow[8] there. Get your horses on board, if possible, and I shall join you in a minute or less. If I manage to scatter these devils, we shall outwit them yet.”
It was hopeless, he knew, to attempt to ride through the enemy’s cordon. There would be a running fight against superior numbers, and Winifred’s presence made that a last resource. The most fortunate accident of the deserted craft being moored beneath the palace wall offered a far more probable means of escape. What blunder or treachery had led to this attack he could not imagine. Nor was he greatly troubled with speculation on that point. Winifred must be saved, he had a sword in his hand, and he was mounted on the best horse in India. What better hap could a cavalry subaltern desire than such a fight under such conditions?
In order not only to drown the girl’s protest when her uncle turned her horse’s head, but also to deceive opponents, Frank thundered forth an order that was familiar to their ears.