as ressaldar, was the senior officer in camp, and at once gave the order
for every man to boot and saddle and get to horse at once. The little
party, numbering barely seventy, led by Fatteh Khan, followed the
messenger at a gallop for three miles to the scene of the raid. Arrived
there they suddenly found themselves confronted, not by a marauding
troop of horsemen hastily driving off a herd of camels, but by the whole
force of the enemy's cavalry, some twelve hundred strong. These veteran
swordsmen and lancers, of whose skill and bravery in battle we had had
ample proof during this and previous wars, had been sent out to
intercept a convoy of treasure expected in the British camp. Having,
however, failed in their mission, they were leisurely returning to
Mooltan, when a little cloud appeared on their fighting horizon. Some
returning patrol, no doubt, they thought, some frightened stragglers
driven in perhaps, some stampeding mules or ponies. But no! the little
cloud now discloses a little line of horsemen, tearing along as if the
devil drove. The whole mass of cavalry, like startled deer, halted and
stared at this reckless onslaught; and while thus standing, transfixed
with astonishment, Fatteh Khan and his gallant troop of Guides were on
them.

Yelling fiercely, with lance and sword the Guides clove their way
through the huddling mass of the enemy. Then clearing, they wheeled
about, and with unabated fury fell again upon the benumbed and paralysed
foe. Not yet content, the heroic Khuttuk again called on his men for
another effort, and, rallying and wheeling about, the weary troopers
and still wearier horses once more rode down into the stricken mass. But
"God preserve us from these fiends," muttered the demoralised Sikhs,
and, assisting their deity to answer the pious prayer, the whole mass
broke and fled, pursued up to the very walls of Mooltan by "that thrice
accursed son of perdition, Fatteh Khan, Khuttuk," and the remnants of