Before the cry had spent itself he was through the "chick," down the verandah steps at a bound, and bending over his unconscious wife. Her head had dropped down to one shoulder, and on the other ominous stains showed darkly in the half light.
"Great God—murder!" Desmond muttered between his teeth. "What devil's work is this?" he added, turning upon the cowering jhampanis.
"Ghazi, Sahib; Ghazi," they told him in eager chorus, with a childish mingling of excitement and terror; and would fain have enlarged upon their own valour in pursuing the Taker of Life, but that Desmond's curt "chupraho" [34] checked them in mid-career.
"Stay where you are, Honor," he added to the girl, who had followed him, and now stood at the head of the steps. "I am bringing her in."
"Is she—alive?"
"God knows. Look sharp and get some brandy."
He took up one limp hand and laid his fingers on her wrist. A faint flutter of life rewarded him.
"Thank Heaven!" he murmured; and lifted her tenderly in his arms. But at the foot of the steps he paused.
"Nassur Ali—the Doctor Sahib. Ride like the wind!" Then turning again to the jhampanis, big with harrowing detail, added: "The devil who did this thing, hath he escaped?"
"Nahin, nahin, [35] Sahib. Would your Honour's servants permit? The jackal spawn is even now in the hands of the police. May his soul burn in hell——"