and rushed at Torpenhow, who was panting under shelter of Dick's
revolver. Dick fired twice, and the man dropped limply. His upturned
face lacked one eye. The musketry-fire redoubled, but cheers mingled
with it. The rush had failed and the enemy were flying. If the heart of the
square were shambles, the ground beyond was a butcher's shop. Dick
thrust his way forward between the maddened men. The remnant of the
enemy were retiring, as the few--the very few--English cavalry rode
down the laggards.

Beyond the lines of the dead, a broad blood-stained Arab spear cast aside
in the retreat lay across a stump of scrub, and beyond this again the
illimitable dark levels of the desert. The sun caught the steel and turned
it into a red disc. Some one behind him was saying, 'Ah, get away, you
brute!' Dick raised his revolver and pointed towards the desert. His eye
was held by the red spash in the distance, and the clamour about him
seemed to die down to a very far-away whisper, like the whisper of a
level sea. There was the revolver and the red light. . . . and the voice of
some one scaring something away, exactly as had fallen somewhere
before,--a darkness that stung. He fired at random, and the bullet went
out across the desert as he muttered, 'Spoilt my aim. There aren't any
more cartridges. We shall have to run home.' He put his hand to his head
and brought it away covered with blood.

'Old man, you're cut rather badly,' said Torpenhow. 'I owe you
something for this business. Thanks. Stand up! I say, you can't be ill
here.'

Throughout the night, when the troops were encamped by the
whale-boats, a black figure danced in the strong moonlight on the
sand-bar and shouted that Khartoum the accursed one was dead,--was