"Have no fear," Wyndham reassured him kindly; and, with a sharp contraction of heart, ran to his friend's assistance.
Desmond had already stooped to slit the rope that pressed so cruelly against the charger's throat; and, as Wyndham reached him, the animal gave a last convulsive plunge; threw out his forelegs in an ecstasy of freedom; and struck his deliverer full on the shoulder.
"Damnation!" Desmond muttered, as he fell to the ground, and Sher Dil staggered, panting, to his feet.
Rajinder Singh sprang forward with a smothered cry. But, quick as lightning, Desmond was up again, and had secured the morsel of rope dangling by the horse's head. Only his left arm hung limp and helpless, the droop of the shoulder telling its own tale.
"Collar-bone," he said laconically, in reply to the mute anxiety of Paul's face. "Same old spot again!"
"It might just as well have been—your head," Paul answered, with a twist of his sensitive mouth. He had not quite got over his few moments of acute suspense.
Desmond laughed.
"So it might, you old pessimist! But it wasn't! Here you are, Ressaldar Sahib! Never have I seen a horse so set on killing himself. But it was needful to disappoint him on your account."
Rajinder Singh, who had come forward, plucking the muslin scarf from his shoulders for a bandage, saluted in acknowledgment of the words.
"How is it possible to make thanks, Hazúr...?"