“The troop will advance! Draw swords! Walk—trot—charge!”
Chumru, though no fighting-man, realized that he was expected to make a row and uttered a bloodcurdling yell. Inspired by their officer’s example the two sowars dashed after him with splendid courage. They were on their startled pursuers so soon, the line having narrowed more quickly than they expected, that they hurtled right through the opposing force without a blow being struck or a shot fired. As it chanced, no better maneuver could have been effected. When they wheeled and Frank managed to shoot two men at close range, it seemed to the amazed rebels that they were being attacked from the very quarter from which they had advanced.
Under such conditions even the steadiest of troops will break, and at least endeavor to reach a place where their adversaries are not shrouded in a dense mist. And that was exactly what occurred in this instance. Nearly all the mutineers swung round and galloped headlong for the landward boundary of the paddy field. Shouting to his two plucky assistants to come back, Frank called out to Chumru and bade him join them. He was hurrying towards the corner of the palace grounds when a shriek from Winifred set his teeth on edge.
“I am coming,” he cried. “What has happened? Where are you, Mayne?”
“Here, close to the boat. Look out there! Two sowars are carrying off my niece. For Heaven’s sake, save her! I am wounded, but never mind me.”
Malcolm had the hunter’s lore, a species of Red Indian cunning in the stalker’s art. Instead of rushing blindly forward he halted his men promptly and listened. Sure enough, he heard stumbling footsteps by the water’s edge. Leaping from Nejdi’s back, he sprang down the crumbling bank and came almost on top of Abdul Huq and his brother Pathan. Their progress was hindered by Winifred’s frantic struggles and their own brutal efforts to stop her from screaming, and they were taken unaware by Frank’s unexpected leap.
A thrust that went home caused a vacancy in a border clan, but, before the avenger could withdraw his weapon, Abdul Huq was swinging his tulwar. He was no novice in the art, and Malcolm must have gone down under the blow had not Winifred seen its murderous purpose and seized the man’s arm. That gave her lover the second he needed. He recovered his sword, but was too near to stab or cut, so he met the case by dealing the swarthy one a blow with the hilt between the eyes that would have felled an ox. Never before had the Englishman hit any man with such vigorous good will. This rascal was owed a debt for the indignity he had offered the sahib in the village, and now he was paid in full.
He fell insensible, with part of his body resting in the water. It was a queer moment for noting a trivial thing, yet Frank saw that the man’s turban did not fall off. He had lost his own turban during the mêlée on the Grand Trunk Road, and, as it would soon be daylight, he stooped to secure Abdul Huq’s headgear. Oddly enough, it was fastened by a piece of cord under the Pathan’s chin—an almost unheard-of device this, to be adopted by a native. With a sharp pull Frank broke the cord and jammed the turban on his head. He was determined to have it, if only because no greater insult can be inflicted on a Mohammedan than to bare his head.
The incident did not demand more than a few seconds for its transaction and Winifred hardly noticed it, so unstrung was she. Without more ado Malcolm took her in his arms and carried her up the bank. He told the troopers and his servant to follow with the horses as quietly as possible and led the way towards the budgerow.