The left front of the square was formed by four companies of the Royal Wessex, and the right by four of the Royal Mallows.  On either side the other halves of the same regiments marched in quarter column of companies.  Behind them, on the right was a battalion of Guards, and on the left one of Marines, while the rear was closed in by a Rifle battalion.  Two Royal Artillery 7 lb. screw-guns kept pace with the square, and a dozen white-bloused sailors, under their blue-coated, tight-waisted officers, trailed their Gardner in front, turning every now and then to spit up at the draggled banners which waved over the cragged ridge.  Hussars and Lancers scouted in the scrub at each side, and within moved the clump of camels, with humorous eyes and supercilious lips, their comic faces a contrast to the blood-stained men who already lay huddled in the cacolets on either side.

The square was now moving slowly on a line parallel with the rocks, stopping every few minutes to pick up wounded, and to allow the screw-guns and Gardner to make themselves felt.  The men looked serious, for that spring on to the rocks of the Arab army had given them a vague glimpse of the number and ferocity of their foes; but their faces were set like stone, for they knew to a man that they must win or they must die—­and die, too, in a particularly unlovely fashion.  But most serious of all was the general, for he had seen that which brought a flush to his cheeks and a frown to his brow.

“I say, Stephen,” said he to his galloper, “those Mallows seem a trifle jumpy.  The right flank company bulged a bit when the niggers showed on the hill.”

“Youngest troops in the square, sir,” murmured the aide, looking at them critically through his eye-glass.

“Tell Colonel Flanagan to see to it, Stephen,” said the general; and the galloper sped upon his way.  The colonel, a fine old Celtic warrior, was over at C Company in an instant.

“How are the men, Captain Foley?”

“Never better, sir,” answered the senior captain, in the spirit that makes a Madras officer look murder if you suggest recruiting his regiment from the Punjab.

“Stiffen them up!” cried the colonel.  As he rode away a colour-sergeant seemed to trip, and fell forward into a mimosa bush.  He made no effort to rise, but lay in a heap among the thorns.

“Sergeant O’Rooke’s gone, sorr,” cried a voice.  “Never mind, lads,” said Captain Foley.  “He’s died like a soldier, fighting for his Queen.”

“Down with the Queen!” shouted a hoarse voice from the ranks.

But the roar of the Gardner and the typewriter-like clicking of the hopper burst in at the tail of the words.  Captain Foley heard them, and Subalterns Grice and Murphy heard them; but there are times when a deaf ear is a gift from the gods.

“Steady, Mallows!” cried the captain, in a pause of the grunting machine-gun.  “We have the honour of Ireland to guard this day.”