“What did you go and do that for? I could have pulled you on board in a minute. Now those fellows will make off with the boat.”
“Let them. We’re better without it. There’s no safety for y’on board,” gasped Eveleen, as she struggled to turn him in the other direction.
“Will you keep quiet? Any one would think you were determined to be drowned. If only you won’t struggle, I can——” he had got his hand on the edge of the boat again, and as Eveleen had done, removed it hurriedly as some unseen person aimed a blow at it with the butt of a matchlock.
“Didn’t I tell you? The land, Ambrose, the land! or we’ll all be killed if we ain’t drowned.”
“This way, Sahib, this way!” came the despairing voice of Abdul Qaiyam, standing on tiptoe some way farther in to get his mouth above the water. “Destruction awaits your honour if you remain.”
Convinced at last, Richard struck out in the direction of the voice, but speedily found his feet on the ground. Then, partly dragging, partly carrying his wife, he waded towards the shore. Eveleen turned her head once, with the horrible feeling that the boat was pursuing them to run them down. But the enemy were merely standing in a row watching them, and not attempting to follow, though their ready matchlocks and tulwars showed that they had no amiable feelings towards the fugitives. Their powder must certainly be wet, or why did they not fire?
As the water grew shallower, the bearer came to his master’s help, and between them they pulled Eveleen along, for she felt as if the last horror had robbed her of every scrap of strength that remained. But a warning cry from Ketty floated out to meet them as they waded in. There was a sudden rush, and before their feet were even on dry land they were struggling in the midst of a fresh crowd of assailants. Eveleen had a vague impression of Richard snatching a tulwar from some one and dealing tremendous blows in a scrimmage which seemed to have arisen by magic, until a man with a heavy club struck at him from behind, and he went down like a log. The fighting was so confused that for a moment the assailants could not get at him with their swords, and in that moment Eveleen had pushed into the mêlée and thrown herself upon him, shielding his body with her own, so that no blow could reach him but through her. She tasted the bitterness of death a dozen times as the raging combatants tried to drag her away, abused her, threatened her, but the more frantic their efforts, the tighter she clung. She could hardly believe that they were really abstaining from injuring her, but when they drew back, baffled and breathing hard, she realised that she had not a wound, and made use of the moment’s respite to interlace her fingers under Richard’s shoulders to give her a better purchase. She gathered from the tones of the assailants that when they were not cursing her to one another, they were adjuring her to cease her useless resistance lest she should share her husband’s fate, but as they spoke in an unknown tongue she made no attempt to answer. Some of them seemed to give the matter up at last, and went off, while the rest still stood round, talking angrily, and she ventured to relax her strained hold for a moment, wondering now—when the tension was slackened—what she could do when the enemy laid aside their strange scruple, and really attacked her. So little would do it—a cut from one of those keen-edged tulwars would sever a wrist as easily as a finger, and she would be helpless, and Richard at their mercy.
There were fresh voices on the outskirts of the group. These men might be less scrupulous, and once more she put forth all her strength in a blind effort to hold—only to hold—Richard so that he might not be touched. Even his head was covered by her wet hair, and she had gathered his arms close to his sides when she clasped him first. He was as safe as the frail rampart of her body could make him. But to her immeasurable surprise, the sound that fell on her ears was not that terrible whistle of the swung tulwar, but a voice—a voice speaking English—a voice that she knew.
“Miss Evie—it’s never you!” said the voice. “Great heavens, however did you manage to get here?”
“If it’s you, Tom Carthew,” she returned, in a voice muffled by her hair, “call your murderous wretches off first, and then we’ll talk, if you like.”