u'll give me an arm."

But they got him on to a stretcher, none the less; and Courtenay did
all he could till a definite halt was possible.

"Bad . . is it?" the civilian asked coolly, noting the concern in the
other's eyes. "Well, a man might do worse than die . . . like a
soldier. But by God, I'll hang on to life somehow,--till I can draft
out my report."

And hang on to life he did, in defiance of mortal pain, with a tenacity
worthy of his bull-dog jaw.

At the foot of the _kotal_, Desmond called a halt; and the rearguard
under Hira Singh closed up, to hold the enemy in check, that the guns
and wounded might get over in safety before the position should be
finally abandoned.

And now began the toughest bit of fighting the day had yet seen. For
the Waziris closed with the Sikhs and Punjabis in overwhelming numbers;
exchanging the clatter of musketry for the clash of steel, the
sickening thud of blows given and received. But neither numbers nor
cold steel availed to break up that narrow wall of devoted men. With
each gap in their ranks, they merely closed in, and fought the more
fiercely: Hira Singh, with his brother the Jemadar, and a score of
unconsidered heroes, flinging away their lives with less of hesitation
than they would have flung away a handful of current coin, to gain time
for those whose safety hung upon their power of resistance.

At last,--when all had passed over the small hill behind them,--came
the order to fall back: and not till that moment had any man among them
yielded a foot of space to the persistent foe, who now pressed after
them; and, with renewed jubilations and flutterings of green standards,
occupied every available position on the surrounding hills.

For two interminable hours the dreary game went on; till six ridges,
that climbed to a commanding plateau, had been held and abandoned
through shortage of ammunition. But thanks to the steadiness of the
rearguard, and to their leader's genius for the art of war, no further
lives were lost; no further advantage gained by the Waziris; and at
length, heart-weary and leg-weary, they reached the plateau itself, to
find Brownlow,--with shot and shell, and two hundred Sikhs thirsting
for battle,--already there before them, having covered the nine miles
in one and a half hours.

Perhaps only a soldier who has drunk his cup of blood and fire to the
dregs, knows the strange mingling of emotions packed into that little
word 'relieved': a