He went nearer and caught the end of the heavy oar.
“Pull hard, now,” he said encouragingly, “and we will be out of the current.”
He was facing the three men, and his order was a quite natural one under the circumstances. Obviously, he meant to help. Stretching their arms for a long and strong stroke, they laid on with a will. Instantly, he pressed the oar downwards, thus forcing the blade out of the water, and threw all his strength into its unexpected yielding. Before they could so much as utter a yell, Akhab Khan and another were swept headlong into the river, while the third man lay on his back on the deck with Frank on top of him. The simplicity of the maneuver insured its success. Neither Mayne nor Winifred understood what had happened until Malcolm had disarmed the trooper, taken his cartridge pouch, and thrown him overboard to sink or swim as fate might direct. He regretted the loss of Akhab Khan, but he recalled the queer expression on the man’s face when he read Bahadur Shah’s sonorous titles.
“Light of the World, Renowned King of Kings, Lord of all India, Fuzl-Ilahi, Panah-i-din!”
That appeal to the faith was too powerful to be withstood. Yet Malcolm was glad the man had been chivalrous in his fall, for he had taken a liking to him.
Chumru, of course, after the first gasp of surprise, appreciated the sahib’s strategy.
“Shabash!” he cried, “Wao, wao, huzoor![10] May I never see the White Pond of the Prophet if that was not well planned.”
“Oh, what is it?” came Winifred’s startled exclamation. It was so dark, and the horses, no less than the sail, so obscured her view of the fore part of the boat, that she could only dimly make out Malcolm’s figure, though the sounds of the scuffle and splashing were unmistakable.
“We are disbanding our native forces—that is all,” said Frank. “Press the tiller more to the left, please. Yes, that is right. Now, keep it there until we touch the steps.”
The shimmering surface of the river near the boat was broken up into ripples surrounding a black object. Malcolm heard the quick panting of one in whose lungs water had mixed with air, and he hated to think of even a rebel drowning before his eyes. Moved by pity, he swung the big oar on its wooden rest until the blade touched the exhausted man, whose hands shot out in the hope of succor. After some spluttering a broken voice supplicated: