almost touching the soldier's feet. Dermot saw that the corpse was that of
a low-caste Hindu, clad only in a dirty cotton _koorta_ and _dhoti_. A
Tower musket lay beside him.

The wild firing died down again. The sun was setting; and the soldier
judged that the attackers were probably waiting for darkness to rush him.
Why they did not do so at once, since they were so numerous, surprised him;
but he surmised that it was lack of courage. It was maddening to be obliged
to await their pleasure. He was far more concerned about the girl than for
himself. A feeling of dread pity filled his heart when he thought of what
her fate would be when he was no longer alive to protect her. Should he
kill her, he asked himself, and give her a swift and merciful death instead
of the horrors of outrage and torture that would probably be her lot if she
fell alive into the hands of these murderous scoundrels? In those moments
of tension and terrible strain he realised that she was very dear to him,
that she evoked in his heart a feeling that no other woman had ever aroused
in him.

The sun was going down; and with it Dermot felt that his life was passing.
He grudged losing it in an obscure and causeless scuffle, instead of on an
honourable field of battle as a soldier should. He wished that he had a
handful of his splendid sepoys with him. They would have made short work of
a hundred of such ruffians as now threatened him. But it was useless to
long for them. He drew his _kukri_ and laid it on the ground beside him,
ready for the last grim struggle. He had resolved to crawl to the girl when
darkness settled on the forest, and, before the rush came, give her the
chance of a swift and honourable death, shoot her if she chose it--as he
was confident that she would--then close with his foes until death came.

The light grew fainter. Dermot nerved himself for the terrible task before