He began to drag her off. She clung to the saddle wildly, knowing how hopeless it was, but somehow feeling that she must not leave that one poor haven of safety. Then she felt herself going, and in that sickening moment screamed for help—a child's piteous cry:
"Jim! Jim! Jim!"
There was no Jim to aid her—she knew it, even as she cried. The rough grasp tightened; she could feel his breath as he dragged her from the saddle.
Then from the darkness came a tall, stealthy shadow, and suddenly her wrists were free, as her assailant staggered back in the grip of the newcomer. She made a violent effort and found herself back in the saddle; and Bobs was plunging wildly, his bridle free. The necessity of steadying him in the timber helped her to calm herself. Before her the men were swaying backwards and forwards, blocking the way to the track; her enemy's savage voice mingling with a lower one that was somehow familiar, though she could not tell what he said. Then she saw that the struggle was ending—the tall man had the other pinned against a tree, and turned to her. His dark face was close, and she cried out to him, knowing him for a friend.
"Oh, Lal Chunder, it's you!"
"Him beat," said Lal Chunder, breathlessly. "L'il meesis orright?"
"I'm all right," she said, struggling with—for Norah—an unaccountable desire to cry. "Oh, don't let him go!"
"No," said the Hindu, decidedly. "Him hurt you? Me kill him."
The last remark was uttered conversationally, and the man against the tree cried out in fear. Lal Chunder flung at him a flood of rapid Hindustani, and he collapsed into shivering silence. Probably it was rather awe-inspiring—the great black-bearded Indian, with his keen, enraged face and the voice that seemed to cut. But to Norah he was a very haven of refuge.
"Oh, you mustn't kill him," she said. "The boys will be here—men coming—quick! Can you hold him?"