Two things prevented him from making his escape.  Five of Alwa’s men, returning from pursuing fugitives, cut off his flight in one direction, and the extra weight on his horse prevented him from getting clear by means of speed alone—­as he might have done otherwise, for Cunningham’s mare was growing tired.

Jaimihr rode for two minutes with the frenzy of a savage before he saw the futility of it.  It was Cunningham’s mare, gaining on him stride over stride, that warned him he would be cut down like a dog from behind unless he surrendered or let go his prize.

So he laughed and threw the girl to the ground.  For a moment more he spurted, spurring like a fiend, then wheeled and charged at Cunningham.  He guessed that but for Cunningham that number of Rangars would never have agreed on a given plan.  He knew that it was he, and not Cunningham or Alwa or Rosemary McClean, who had broken faith.  He had broken it in thought, and word, and action.  And he had lost his prospect of a throne.  So he came on like a man who has nothing to gain by considering his safety.  He came like a real man at last.  And Cunningham, on a tired mare, met him point to point.

They fought over a quarter of a mile of ground, for Jaimihr proved to be as useful with his weapon as Mahommed Gunga’s teaching had made Cunningham.  There was plenty of time for the reformed squadrons to see what was happening—­plenty of time for Alwa, who considered that he had an account of his own to settle with the Prince, to leave his squadron and come thundering up to help.  Mahommed Gunga dodged and reined and spurred, watching his opportunity on one side and Alwa on the other.  It would have suited neither of them to have their leader killed at that stage of the game, but the fighting was too quick for either man to interfere.

Jaimihr charged Cunningham for the dozenth time and missed, charged past, to wheel and charge again, then closed with the most vindictive rush of all.  Again Cunningham met him point to point.  The two blades locked, and bent like springs as they wrenched at them.  Cunningham’s blade snapped.  He snatched at his mare and spun her before Jaimihr could recover, then rammed both spurs in and bore down on the Prince with half a sabre.  He had him on the near side at a disadvantage.  Jaimihr spurred and tried to maneuver for position, and the half sabre went home just below his ribs.  He dropped bleeding in the dust at the second that Alwa and Mahommed Gunga each saw an opportunity and rushed in, to rein back face to face, grinning in each other’s faces, their horses’ breasts pressed tight against the charger that Jaimihr rode.  The horse screamed as the shock crushed the wind out of him.

“You robbed me of my man, sahib, by about a sabre’s breadth!” laughed Alwa.

“And you left your squadron leaderless without my permission!” answered Cunningham.  “You too!  Mahommed Gunga!”

“But, sahib!”