There was
a rush from without, the short hough-hough of the stabbing spears, and a man on
a horse, followed by thirty or forty others, dashed through, yelling and
hacking. The right flank of the square sucked in after them, and the other
sides sent help. The wounded, who knew that they had but a few hours more to
live, caught at the enemy's feet and brought them down, or, staggering into a
discarded rifle, fired blindly into the scuffle that raged in the centre of the
square.
Dick was conscious that somebody had cut him violently across his helmet, that
he had fired his revolver into a black, foam-flecked face which forthwith
ceased to bear any resemblance to a face, and that Torpenhow had gone down
under an Arab whom he had tried to "collar low," and was turning over and over
with his captive, feeling for the man's eyes. The doctor jabbed at a venture
with a bayonet, and a helmetless soldier fired over Dick's shoulder: the flying
grains of powder stung his cheek. It was to Torpenhow that Dick turned by
instinct. The representative of the Central Southern Syndicate had shaken
himself clear of his enemy, and rose, wiping his thumb on his trousers. The
Arab, both hands to his forehead, screamed aloud, then snatched up his spear
and rushed at Torpenhow, who was panting under shelter of Dick's revolver.
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