It was now a clear race for life.  He must keep beyond reasonable rifle-shot; otherwise a broken leg might bring him to a standstill.  He cursed the deceptive clearness of the hill air which made it impossible for his unpractised eye to judge distances.  The fort stood clear in every stone, but it might be miles off though it looked scarcely a thousand yards.  Apparently it was still asleep, for no smoke was rising, and, strain his ears as he might, he could hear no sound of a sentry’s walk.  This looked awkward indeed for him.  If the people were not awake to receive him, he would be potted against its wall as surely as a rat in a corner.  He grew acutely nervous, and as he drew nearer he made the air hideous with shouts to wake the garrison.  A clear race in the open he did not mind; but he had no stomach for a game of hide-and-seek around an unscalable wall with an active enemy.

Apparently the gentry behind him were growing despondent.  Two rifle bullets, fired by running men, sang unsteadily in his wake.  He was now so near that he could see the rough wooden gate and the pyramidal nails with which it was studded.  He could guess the number of paces between him and safety.  He was out of breath and a little tired, for the scramble up the nullah had not been a light one.  Again he yelled frantically to the dead walls, beseeching their inmates to get out of bed and save his life.

There was still no sound from the sleeping fortress.  He was barely a hundred yards off, and he saw now that the walls were too high to climb and that nothing remained but the gate.  He picked up a stone and flung it against the woodwork.  The din echoed through the empty place, but there was no sound of life.  Just at the threshold there was a patch of shadow.  It was his one way of escape, and as he reached the door and kicked and hammered at the wood, he cowered down in the shade, praying that his friends behind might be something less than sharpshooters.

The pursuit saw its chance, and running forward to get within easy range, proceeded to target practice.  Lewis, kicking diligently at the door, was trying to draw himself into the smallest space, and his mind was far from comfortable.  It needs good nerves to fill the position of a target with equanimity, and he was too tired to take it in good part.  A disagreeable cold sweat stood on his brow, and his heart beat violently.  Then a bullet did what all his knocking had failed to do, for it crashed into the woodwork and woke the garrison.  He heard feet hurrying across a yard, and then it seemed to him that men were reconnoitring from the top of the wall.  A second later—­when the third bullet had buried itself in dust a foot beyond his head—­the heavy gate was half opened and a man’s hand assisted him to crawl inside.

He looked up to see a tall figure in pyjamas standing over him.  “Now I wonder who the deuce you are?” it was saying.

“My name’s Haystoun.  H-a-y-s;” then he broke off and laughed.  He had fallen into his old trick of spelling his name to the Oxford tradesmen when he was young and hated to have it garbled.