“What you need is chlorodyne,” whispered Macartney, indignantly.
They lay silent in the dark, upland grass, and the dew beaded and dripped on the thorns overhead. The command hunted for prickles in its feet, tightened belts, and babbled softly of stewed fowl.
From immense spaces, as spun out and as thin as a thread, came the hunting-cry of a lion. The Haussa sergeant crept up and touched Blake’s foot.
“The moon sets, O Effendi, and it is not yet dawn.”
Blake rose to his feet and looked at the sky. “We be ready,” he said.
The command moved as one man, eyes glinting whitely under the tarbooshes. The last few days had been hungry ones. Below in the valley was good food; it was only to fight a little, and all would be full.
“Ya Illah, brethren, let us go down.”
They went down. Blake was no tactician, and his plan in such cases was simple. You took the main gate, held it, and swept the obstructionists out of the other gates or over the mud walls, broom fashion. He had worked with his present command for a year, and they followed him like a football team. The sergeant at his elbow presently touched his sleeve.
“There is made ground here.”
“Made ground?”