a second squadron of the British horse was
coming up at a gallop, a detachment checking and capturing the whole
camel train.

How it came about Frank hardly knew, but somehow, mounted as he was, he
found himself with his brother close to where the Emir's officer, with a
dozen of his men, had hacked their way from among a crowd of dervishes,
just as the British cavalry had wheeled and come back, cutting up the
assailants of the Emir's guards, and the next minute had nearly been
Frank's last, for an English lancer rode in the _melee_ at the Emir's
officer, who must have fallen had not a quick blow from Frank's sword
turned the lance aside.

The man passed on, but an officer dashed in, sword in hand, and Frank
would have been laid low but for his brother's act.

For Harry turned his horse and rode full at the advancing officer, their
chargers coming together as he shouted wildly--

"Halt! Halt! English--English!"

The officer turned upon him fiercely.

"What?--Who are you?"

"Frere, of Gordon's," shouted Harry.

"But that black?"

"My brother!"

"Yes," cried Frank, in honest old English. "I was trying to save this
brave man's life."

"Then don't black your face first, youngster, next time," cried the
officer, with a laugh, as he turned to find fresh food for his steel.

But the enemy were flying fast, scattered, and leaving half their force
upon the field. The recall was ringing out, and shortly after the
English squadrons were making for Khartoum, with their prisoners and
prizes, the former including the remains of the Emir's bodyguard, their
captain and six of his followers, wounded to a man.

That night Frank and his companions rested in Khartoum.

It was the day of the oft-told scene when the Sirdar and his staff were
gathered around with all the thrilling pomp of a military funeral, to
pay the long-deferred honour at their hero's grave.

The chaplain had read the solemn words, the volleys had been fired, to
waken the echoes from where they had slumbered among the ruins of
Khartoum, and the victorious general and his brave staff had paid their
last duties of respect.

As the combined flags floated and waved together with a soft rustle in
the desert wind, the general and his officers drew back from the hero's
grave and then stood fast, as a thin, worn-looking, sun-burned man in
tattered white cotton garments, and bearing his left arm in a sling,
stepped forward--a dervish slave in dress, but wit