Back came Cunningham’s close-formed squadrons, straight through the writhing mass again; and now the whole of Jaimihr’s army took to its heels, just as part of the five-feet-thick stone palace-wall succumbed to the attacks of crowbars and crashed down in the roadway, disclosing a dark vault on the other side.

Jaimihr made a rush for the six-horse carriage, and tried vainly to get it started.  Cunningham shouted to him to surrender, but he took no notice of the challenge; he escaped being made prisoner by the narrowest of margins, as the position next him was cut down.  The other postilions were un-horsed, and six Rangars changed mounts and seized the reins.  The Prince ran one man through the middle, and then spurred off to try and overtake his routed army, some of which showed a disposition to form up again.

“Sit quiet!” called Cunningham through the latticed carriage window.  “You’re safe!”

The heavy, swaying carriage rumbled round, and the horses plunged in answer to the Rangars’ heels.  A moment later it was moving at a gallop; two minutes later it was backed against the wall, and Rosemary McClean stepped out behind three protecting squadrons that had not suffered perceptibly from what they would have scorned to call a battle.

“Now all together!” shouted Cunningham, whose theories on the value of seconds when tackling reforming infantry were worthy of the Duke of Wellington, or any other officer who knew his business; and again he led his men at a breakneck charge.  This time Jaimihr’s disheartened little army did not wait for him, but broke into wild confusion and scattered right and left, leaving their elephants to be captured.  There were only a few men killed.  The lance-tipped, roaring whirlwind loosed itself for the most part against nothing, and reformed uninjured to trot back again.  Cunningham told off two troops to pursue fugitives and keep their eyes open for the Prince before he rode back to examine the breach in the wall that Jaimihr had been to so much trouble about making.

He had halted to peer through the break in the age-old masonry when Mahommed Gunga spurred up close to him, touched his arm, and pointed.

“Look, sahib!  Look!”

Jaimihr—­and no one but a wizard could have told how he had managed to get to where he was unobserved—­was riding as a man rides at a tent-peg, crouching low, full-pelt for Rosemary McClean!

Cunningham’s spurs went home before the word was out of Mahommed Gunga’s mouth, and Mahommed Gunga raced behind him; but Jaimihr had the start of them.  Duncan McClean, looking ill and weak and helpless, crowded his daughter to the wall, standing between her and the Prince; but Jaimihr aimed a swinging sabre at him, and the missionary fell.  His daughter stooped to bend over him, and Jaimihr seized her below the arms.  A second later he had hoisted her to his saddle-bow and was spurring hell-bent-for-leather for the open country.