"Don't think this beast will hold out," said Phipson suddenly. The horse was almost staggering in its stride under him, and he knew by the ominous way in which the poor animal seized the bit between his teeth at intervals and flung forward his head that it could not keep up the pace for long.
No one answered, for at that time the loud, deep whistle of a steamer reached their ears, ringing through the woods with echo upon echo.
"Allah ho Akbar! 'Tis the steamer!" shouted Serferez.
"Thank God!" came in deeper tones from the very hearts of the two Englishmen. The horses themselves seemed to know it. Brave hearts! They had won a race for life, and ten minutes later kind hands were rubbing them down on the deck of the little Beeloo, and the old Panjabi was purring over the neck of his roan.
"There is none like thee in the land, my pearl," he said softly as he stroked her silver mane--"there is none like thee in the land. By the Prophet's head, I swear that for this night's work I will never forget thee--never!"
"What's the time, Phipson?"
"Two thirty," said Phipson, holding his watch out to the broad moonlight. "We reach Pazobin at seven to-morrow, pick up the men, and go straight on."
Peregrine made no answer, but his white face as it shone out of the moonlight almost scared Phipson, so fixed and rigid was its look.
"I say, Jackson!"
"What is it?"