“No, we will remain,” Guy and Melton replied almost in one voice.
The colonel glanced at them approvingly.
“You are brave men,” he said. “Stop!” he added suddenly. “You say you left Berbera at sunset last night, and were delayed by an accident. Were there any camels there?”
“A caravan of two thousand arrived two days ago,” replied Melton.
The colonel’s face paled.
“Then the enemy are due here now,” he said huskily. “On camels they could traverse the sixty miles in from fifteen to twenty hours. It is already dark,” and he pointed out through the window.
At this Sir Arthur groaned aloud, and tossed down three or four glasses of champagne in rapid succession.
“To your steamer, quick!” cried the colonel, addressing Captain Waller; “and you, gentlemen, since you decide to throw your fate in with ours, come with me, and we will inspect the fortifications, and do what little we can.”
They had risen to their feet, and were giving a hasty look to their arms, when a bright flash lit up the gloom from without, followed by a sharp report, and at the same moment, from all quarters of the town, rose a continuous rifle-firing, a violent uproar and shouting, and a deep beating of drums.
Sir Arthur sprang to his feet, crying frantically, “To the steamer, to the steamer—it is our only hope;” but before he could take a step the outer doors were burst open, shouts were heard in the hall, and then, through the curtained entrance, staggered blindly an officer of infantry, his uniform torn and disheveled, and blood pouring from half a dozen wounds. He plunged forward, and rolled in a lifeless heap at the very feet of Colonel Carrington.