"
A bearded man raking in the ashes of a fire for a light to his pipe moved very
swiftly towards that cry, as the rearguard, facing about, began to fire at the
puffs of smoke from the hillocks around. Gradually the scattered white
cloudlets drew out into the long lines of banked white that hung heavily in the
stillness of the dawn before they turned over wave-like and glided into the
valleys. The soldiers in the square were coughing and swearing as their own
smoke obstructed their view, and they edged forward to get beyond it. A wounded
camel leaped to its feet and roared aloud, the cry ending in a bubbling grunt.
Some one had cut its throat to prevent confusion. Then came the thick sob of a
man receiving his death-wound from a bullet; then a yell of agony and redoubled
firing.
There was no time to ask any questions.
"Get down, man! Get down behind the camel!"
"No. Put me, I pray, in the forefront of the battle." Dick turned his face to
Torpenhow and raised his hand to set his helmet straight, but, miscalculating
the distance, knocked it off. Torpenhow saw that his hair was gray on the
temples, and that his face was the face of an old man.
"Come down, you damned fool! Dickie, come off!"
And Dick came obediently, but as a tree falls, pitching sideways from the
Bisharin's saddle at Torpenhow's feet.
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