The Path to Honour

by Sydney C. Grier

Rather to his annoyance, Gerrard found that the little prince, instead of accompanying his father, preferred to remain with him, in dangerous proximity to the track through the underwood along which the boar would probably come. Horribly afraid that the quarry would break out in his absence, he seized the white pony's bridle, and in spite of Kharrak Singh's vehement opposition, led him back to his guardians and bade him stay with them. As he cantered back to his post, the child's shrill voice made him look round, and he saw him striking furiously with his sheathed dagger at the hands of the two servants, who held the pony on either side. Satisfied that the boy was in safety, Gerrard waited, spear in hand, watching the movements of the bushes, which showed that some heavy body was making its way through them. From the yapping and yelping of the dogs at a discreet distance behind, he felt certain that this was the boar, and listened eagerly for the crackling of the brushwood as it came towards him. Then it burst into the open—the finest tusker he had ever seen—and made for him as fiercely as he rode at it. But to his utter astonishment, just as it met the iron it swerved violently—so that the spear merely inflicted a long gash from shoulder to flank—and charged on at something behind him.

Nearly thrown from the saddle by the absence of the expected resistance, Gerrard recovered himself and wrenched his horse round, to behold a sight which made his heart stand still. A white pony, with streaming mane and tail, was in full flight, and on the ground lay a vivid green and gold bundle, with two small feet kicking in the air. Kharrak Singh had evidently been thrown sideways from the saddle as the pony turned tail, and the boar's rush had carried it beyond him, but it had already transferred its attention from the terrified horse to the nearer foe. The two retainers, uttering cries of horror as they rode towards the fray, were hopelessly distant, and there was no one else at hand. Two things associated themselves in Gerrard's mind, without any volition on his part—the blood-stained spear in his hand and Kharrak Singh's broad golden belt, and some vague association with Somwar Mal was present as well. He and the boar charged simultaneously for the prostrate child, but before the cruel tusks could reach him, the spear had passed under the stiff golden folds and swung Kharrak Singh ignominiously into the air and across Gerrard's saddle. The astonished horse, accustomed to pig-sticking, but not to having the prey placed on his back, took the bit between his teeth and dashed furiously away, with the boar in full pursuit—so Gerrard gathered from the chorus of yells and shrieks that arose. One hand was fully occupied with the reins, the other with holding the child, and it was impossible to disengage his spear while going at this pace, though the handle collided with half the trees they passed, and threatened to jerk Kharrak Singh from his grasp.

"Hold fast, little brother!" he called out.

"Not your little brother!" The words reached him faintly, and he smiled, for at least the child was not much hurt. Venturing to glance round to see whether the boar was continuing the chase, he found that it had given up, but to his astonishment all the hunt, mounted and on foot, were pursuing him with wild cries. "Maro! maro!" [1] they yelled, and two of the Komadans, who were drawing ahead of the others, had one of them a spear in rest, and the other his sword drawn. Like a flash of lightning it broke upon Gerrard that to a distant observer his action must have had all the appearance of a peculiarly cold-blooded murder, and that before he could explain to these avengers that his spear had merely lifted the child by his girdle, they would have cut him down from behind. To check his horse was impossible, for the sounds of pursuit stimulated it continually to fresh efforts, and he had no means of defending himself while he explained matters, since his spear was still entangled in Kharrak Singh's golden waistbelt.

A second time the pleasing sense of proving Somwar Mat a false prophet came over Gerrard as he jerked his horse violently to the right, where an irrigation channel, leading from the swamp, crossed his course. The pursuers evidently thought it would prove an insurmountable barrier, for he could hear by their shouts that the two foremost were separating so as to ride against him from either side, when he would be caught between them and the main body behind. But his horse was a noted jumper, and that fact saved him. He felt it rise to the leap, and though the channel was too broad, and it fell on its knees on the slope of crumbling earth at the farther side, he contrived to twitch himself and Kharrak Singh out of the saddle in time to prevent its slipping back into the muddy water. Once on his feet, he was able to disengage the spear without difficulty, and as the horse also struggled up he caught it and set Kharrak Singh in the saddle, then turned to confront his astonished pursuers. They had halted in sheer amazement, and were gazing at him with various expressions of stupefaction, old Partab Singh himself, the spear in his iron hand shaking like a leaf; at their head. Kharrak Singh hailed their astonishment as a tribute to himself, for some reason or other, and clapped his hands and cried "Shabash!" until he was tired.

"Is the child unhurt?" the foremost Komadan ventured at last to ask, rather unnecessarily.

"Fool! who should have hurt me?" cried Kharrak Singh.

"The Feringhee," answered every one together.

"Surely ye are all mad, O people. I would have killed him with my dagger!" and the boy clapped his hand to his girdle, only to discover that the precious dagger had dropped by the way. Turning immediately upon Gerrard, he began to beat him with his fists. "Where is my dagger, O fair man? Hast thou stolen it? Give it back!"

"Choop!" said Gerrard unceremoniously, for Partab Singh had ridden to the edge of the bank opposite.