“What proportion of the rebel force?” asked Byng.  “New arrivals, or some of the old ones taking up a new position?”

“The same crowd, sir.  They’re just moving round to hem us in completely.”

“So much the better for us, then!  That leaves fewer for us to deal with in front.”

As he spoke another man came running to report the arrival of five gallopers, coming hell-bent-for leather, one by one and scattered, with the evident purpose of allowing one man to get through, whatever happened.

“That’ll be relief at last!” said Byng-bahadur.  And, instead of ordering the advance immediately, he waited, scouring the sky-line with his glasses.

“Yes—­dust—­lance-heads—­one—­two—­three divisions, coming in a hurry.”

Being on rising ground, he saw the distant relieving force much sooner than the rebels did, and he knew that it was help for him on the way some time before the first of the five gallopers careered into the camp, and shouted: 

“Cunnigan-bahadur comes with fifteen hundred!”

“Fifteen hundred,” muttered Byng.  “That merely serves to postpone the finish by an hour or two!”

But he waited; and presently the rebel scouts brought word, and their leaders, too, became aware of reinforcements on the way for somebody.  They made the mistake, though, of refusing to believe that any help could be coming for the British, and by the time that messengers had hurried from the direction of the British rear, to tell of gallopers who had ridden past them and been swallowed by the shouting British lines, three squadrons on fresh horses were close enough to be reckoned dangerous.

“Is that a gun they’ve got with them?” wondered Byng.  “By the lord Harry, no,—­it’s a coach and six!  They’re flogging it along like a twelve-pounder!  And what the devil’s in those wagons?”

But he had no time for guesswork.  The desultory thunder of the rebel ordnance ceased, and the whole mass that hemmed him in began to revolve within itself, and present a new front to the approaching cavalry.

“Caught on the hop, by God!  The whole line will advance!  Trumpeter!”

One trumpet-call blared out and a dozen echoed it.  In a second more a roar went up that is only heard on battle-fields.  It has none of the exultant shout of joy or of the rage that a mob throws up to heaven; it is not even anger, as the cities know it, or the men who riot for advantage.  It is a welcome ironically offered up to Death—­ full-throated, and more freighted with moral effect on an enemy than a dozen salvoes of artillery.

The thousands ahead tried hard to turn again and face two attacks at once; but, though the units were efficiently controlled, there were none who could swing the whole.  Byng’s decimated, forward-rushing fragment of a mixed brigade, tight-reined and working like a piece of mechanism, struck home into a mass of men who writhed, and fell away, and shouted to each other.  A third of them was out of reach, beyond the British rear; fully another third was camped too far away to bring assistance at the first wild onslaught.  Messengers were sent to bring them up, but the messengers were overtaken by a horde who ran.