A whistle sounded. Up sprang the curved line of khaki-clad troopers, each man covering one of the enemy with his rifle, while a stern order to surrender immediately was given to the completely astonished Germans.
The Askaris obeyed the command without demur, but the Germans were made of stiffer material. Throwing themselves at full length they grasped their rifles.
It was a signal for the Rhodesians to open fire—and the Huns paid the penalty. In less than a minute the action was over. The Askaris were unarmed and ordered to take themselves off, their rifles having been broken and the bolts removed.
Wilmshurst hastened to the prisoner, who at the opening fire had rolled on the ground by the side of a fallen tree. The subaltern found him lying face downwards, unable to rise, his wrists and ankles being secured by thongs of raw hide.
With a couple of strokes of his knife Dudley severed the bonds and assisted the released captive to his feet, for the man was so exhausted that he was incapable of standing unsupported.
"You're all right now," said the subaltern reassuringly. "Can you sit in a saddle for——"
"Good heavens!—Dudley!" exclaimed the gaunt and haggard prisoner.
It was Wilmshurst's turn to be dumfounded. He stepped back a pace and looked the rescued man intently in the face. Was it possible that this human wreck was his once well-set-up and powerfully-built brother?
"Rupert!" he exclaimed dubiously.
"That's me," rejoined the other. "Rather, what's left of me."