t was simply a case
of "dying game";--of adding one more to the list of "regrettable
incidents" which figure too frequently in the record of Border
warfare.

A new risen sun smiled serenely down upon it all; and the awakened
earth was frankly indifferent to the issue.

But amid the stirring confusion of a struggle at close quarters
Desmond saw one thing only; and the sight struck at his heart like a
sword-thrust.

Harry Denvil, hard pressed by four Afridis brandishing long knives and
leathern shields, stood with his back against a rock, fighting for
dear life.

Five of his men and several of the enemy lay dead or wounded around
him. His left arm was disabled; his helmet gone; his hair gleaming
red-gold in the sunlight; his young face, white and desperate,
disfigured by an ugly cut across the forehead and cheek-bone, from
which the blood trickled unheeded in a sluggish stream.

He had flung away his empty revolver; and was warding off blows right
and left, using his sword with a coolness and dexterity which would
have surprised him had he been aware of it. But he was aware of
nothing except a fierce desire not to die yet--not yet; and to get a
straight cut at one of the dark faces that pressed in upon him with
such pitiless persistence.

At sight of Desmond a great cry broke from him.

"Desmond!" he shouted; "Desmond--thank God!"

For answer Desmond ran blindly forward, sheer lust of slaughter in his
heart; trumpeter, bodyguard, and the foremost troopers following as
closely as their captain's ardour would permit.

But an unreasoning sense of safety put Harry momentarily off his
guard. He took a hasty step away from the rock, making it possible for
the first time to strike at him from behind: and, in the same instant,
Desmond fired. Before his bullet could reach its destination, the long
knife had descended, swift and certain. And even as the man who
wielded it dropped like a log, Harry Denvil stumbled forward; and,
with a thick sob, fell face downward at Desmond's feet.

There was no time to stoop and ascertain whether the knife had
completed its work. Striding across his subaltern's body, Desmond
turned upon his assailants, all the natural savage in him lashed to a
white heat of fury, and fired twice in quick succession, with deadly
effect. But the knife of a third man bit into his flesh like fire,
inflicting deep gashes on the left arm and hand, while another slipped
behind him, his uplifted blade glinti