doors, and to protect her with their lives.

Adopting the tactics of the desert fighters from which he had
sprung, Achmet Zek led his followers at a gallop in a long, thin
line, describing a great circle which drew closer and closer in
toward the defenders.

At that part of the circle closest to the Waziri, a constant fusillade
of shots was poured into the bushes behind which the black warriors
had concealed themselves. The latter, on their part, loosed their
slim shafts at the nearest of the enemy.

The Waziri, justly famed for their archery, found no cause to
blush for their performance that day. Time and again some swarthy
horseman threw hands above his head and toppled from his saddle,
pierced by a deadly arrow; but the contest was uneven. The Arabs
outnumbered the Waziri; their bullets penetrated the shrubbery
and found marks that the Arab riflemen had not even seen; and then
Achmet Zek circled inward a half mile above the bungalow, tore down
a section of the fence, and led his marauders within the grounds.

Across the fields they charged at a mad run. Not again did they
pause to lower fences, instead, they drove their wild mounts straight
for them, clearing the obstacles as lightly as winged gulls.

Mugambi saw them coming, and, calling those of his warriors who
remained, ran for the bungalow and the last stand. Upon the veranda
Lady Greystoke stood, rifle in hand. More than a single raider
had accounted to her steady nerves and cool aim for his outlawry;
more than a single pony raced, riderless, in the wake of the charging