In vain the three officers begged, menaced, persuaded.  The square was still moving, ever moving, with the same bloody fight raging in its entrails.  Even while they had been speaking they had been shuffling backwards, and the useless Gardner, with her slaughtered crew, was already a good hundred yards from them.  And the pace was accelerating.  The mass of men, tormented and writhing, was trying, by a common instinct, to reach some clearer ground where they could re-form.  Three faces were still intact, but the fourth had been caved in, and badly mauled, without its comrades being able to help it.  The Guards had met a fresh rush of the Hadendowas, and had blown back the tribesmen with a volley, and the cavalry had ridden over another stream of them, as they welled out of the gully.  A litter of hamstrung horses, and haggled men behind them, showed that a spearman on his face among the bushes can show some sport to the man who charges him.  But, in spite of all, the square was still reeling swiftly backwards, trying to shake itself clear of this torment which clung to its heart.  Would it break or would it re-form?  The lives of five regiments and the honour of the flag hung upon the answer.

Some, at least, were breaking.  The C Company of the Mallows had lost all military order, and was pushing back in spite of the haggard officers, who cursed, and shoved, and prayed in the vain attempt to hold them.  The captain and the subs. were elbowed and jostled, while the men crowded towards Private Conolly for their orders.  The confusion had not spread, for the other companies, in the dust and smoke and turmoil, had lost touch with their mutinous comrades.  Captain Foley saw that even now there might be time to avert a disaster.  “Think what you are doing, man,” he yelled, rushing towards the ringleader.  “There are a thousand Irish in the square, and they are dead men if we break.”

The words alone might have had little effect on the old moonlighter.  It is possible that, in his scheming brain, he had already planned how he was to club his Irish together and lead them to the sea.  But at that moment the Arabs broke through the screen of camels which had fended them off.  There was a Struggle, a screaming, a mule rolled over, a wounded man sprang up in a cacolet with a spear through him, and then through the narrow gap surged a stream of naked savages, mad with battle, drunk with slaughter, spotted and splashed with blood—­blood dripping from their spears, their arms, their faces.  Their yells, their bounds, their crouching, darting figures, the horrid energy of their spear-thrusts, made them look like a blast of fiends from the pit.  And were these the Allies of Ireland?  Were these the men who were to strike for her against her enemies?  Conolly’s soul rose up in loathing at the thought.