Bellairs felt his sword-hilt and cocked a pistol stealthily, but he gave no orders to the section. This might be a native soldier run amuck, and it might be a messenger; but in either case, friend or foe, if there was only one man he could deal with him alone.
“Halt!” roared the advance-guard suddenly. But the horse's hoof-beats never checked for a single instant.
“Halt, you! Who comes there?”
“Friend!” came the answer, in an accent that was unmistakable.
“What friend? Where are you going?”
One of the advance-guard reined his horse across the road. The others followed suit and blocked the way effectually. “Halt!” they roared in unison.
The main body of the advance came up with them.
“Who is he?” shouted the sergeant.
“We'll soon see! Here he comes!”
“Out of my way!” yelled a voice, as a foamed-flecked horse burst out of the darkness like an apparition and bore straight down on them—his head bored a little to one side, the red rims of his nostrils wide distended and his whole sense and energy, and strength concentrated on pleasing the speed-hungry Irishman who rode him. He flashed into them head-on, like a devil from the outer darkness. His head touched a man's knee—and he rose and tried to jump him! His breast crashed full into the obstruction and horse and gunner crashed down to the road.