for an instant across the road, like a sheet of lightning. And, just
as lightning might, it showed an instantaneous vision of a tired gray
horse, foam-flecked and furiously ridden, pounding down the road head-on.
The vision was blotted by the night again before any one could see
who rode the horse, or what his weapons were--if any--or form a theory
as to why he rode.

But the winging bullet did what the sentry's voice had failed to do.
There came a clatter of spasmodic hoof-beats, an erratic shower of
sparks, a curse in clean-lipped decent Urdu; a grunt, a struggle,
more sparks again, and then a thud, followed by a devoutly worded
prayer that Allah, the all-wise provider of just penalties, might
blast the universe.

"Stop talkin'!" said the sentry, and a black-bearded Rajput rolled
free, and looked up to find a bayonet-point within three inches
of his eye.

"Poggul!" snarled the Mohammedan.

"Poggul's no password!" said the sentry. "Neither to my good-nature
nor to nothing else. Put up your 'ands, and get on your feet, and
march! Look alive, now! Call me a fool, would yer? Wait till the
sergeant's through with yer, and see!"

The Rajput chose to consider a retort beneath his dignity. He rose,
and took one quick look at the horse, which was still breathing.

"Your bayonet just there," he said, "and press. So he will die quickly."