nox righted himself speedily; and
kneeling on one knee, supported his subaltern's shoulders against the
other, while a Havildar roughly bandaged the wounded leg, and bullets
whinged and whirred on all sides of them.

"Dick, you'd no business to be there. What the devil did you do?"
Lenox asked, a queer vibration in his voice: for it seemed that not
till this moment had he understood the strength of the link that bound
him to the simple-hearted man who was his friend.

"For God's sake don't plague a chap with questions when he's hard hit.
The thing's done; and . ." Richardson's voice trailed off
inaudible,--"it's better this way . . for her." Then he roused himself
with an effort. "We've crushed the brutes, haven't we?"

"Yes. For the present. The men behaved splendidly. Jove! here comes
Norton through the thick of it all. Orders to clear out, most likely.
If it's that, I wish to hell it had come five minutes sooner." And
Richardson murmured inarticulate assent.

Norton carried his message in his face.

"The Colonel has rallied a little," he said, after expressing sympathy
and concern for the plight of both officers. "And he agrees with me
that it is wanton sacrifice of men to hold out any longer. Only
Courtenay and Martin untouched out of the seven of you; for Desmond's
just had his wrist smashed, poor fellow. We must get back, as best we
can, by the lane and over the _kotal_. Desmond has despatched a party
of his sowars to Brownlow, of your corps, for reinforcements of men and
ammunition. His post is only nine miles off, and we can push along in
that direction. Now I must get back to the Colonel. I'll let
Courtenay know he's wanted: and send a stretcher along."

With his departure, began the desperate business of dismembering guns
and loading mules under a sharp fire; gunners, drivers, and native
officers vieing with each other in carrying off the wounded, repulsing
hand-to-hand attacks, and in many individual acts of gallantry. While
limbering up the guns a mule was shot, and two wheels rolled down the
slope. The Havildar in charge sped after them, through pattering
bullets; returning with seventy-two pounds of solid metal hanging from
each arm. But even as he flung them down in triumph, he rolled over,
with a bullet through his chest: while Richardson's orderly staggered
past, carrying the gun itself, a matter of two hundred pounds. Such
amazing feats can flesh and blood achieve under the sp