As he descended to the level of the ravine which encircled the mountain, he saw within a hundred yards of him a squad of the Foreign Legion, hurrying along the ravine, either seeking an easier ascent to the field of battle, or making an attempt to cut off the Chinese retreat.
Suddenly out of a dense grove of bamboos on the hill-side spirted streams of flame and smoke. The stout, fair-complexioned sub-lieutenant who was leading them, threw up his arms, staggered, caught the trunk of a tree-fern which saved him from falling.
"Mein Gott im Himmel!" he screamed. "Je suis tué! En avant, mes camarades! Vorwärts!"
They were his last words. But they were typical of the character of the Legion.
A sergeant of almost gigantic size sprang forward.
"Vers la gauche!" he shouted. "Charges à la baïonnette! En avant!"
"Good for you, sergeant!" yelled an exile of Ireland fighting under a foreign flag. "Give the yellow divils a taste of the steel. Hurroosh!"
They dashed at the bamboos. But the withering fire cut them down. Not a man reached the ambuscade but the big sergeant. A bullet hit him. He fell; rose to his feet, and made a couple of paces forward. Another hit him on the leg. He raised himself on a foot and a knee. A heavy stone thrown at a few yards struck him on the head. He went down silent and motionless.
With wild screams the Chinese irregulars burst from their cover, brandishing long knives and racing with each other to be first to reach their victims. It was not merely their lust for blood which clamoured to be satisfied. Still more was it their lust for gain. There was a price set upon French heads.
Anticipating the result, and knowing what would follow, Sinclair dashed down the steep, grass-covered side of the ravine at the top of his speed.