In a second the whole Indian line was in confusion and in another minute it was in full retreat not knowing nor even guessing what had routed it.  Retreat grew into panic and panic to stampede and, five minutes after the Risaldar’s appearance on the scene, half of the Indian line was rushing wildly for Hanadra and the other half was retiring sullenly in comparatively dense and decent order.

Bellairs could not see all that happened.  The smoke from his own guns obscured the view, and the necessity for giving orders to his men prevented him from watching as he would have wished.  But he saw the Rajputs burst out through the Indian ranks and he saw his own charger—­Shaitan the unmistakable—­careering across the plain toward him riderless.

“For the love of God!” he groaned, raising both fists to heaven, “has she got this far, and then been killed!  Oh, what in Hades did I entrust her to an Indian for?  The pig-headed, brave old fool!  Why couldn’t he ride round them, instead of charging through?”

As he groaned aloud, too wretched even to think of what his duty was, a galloper rode up to him.

“Bring up your guns, sir, please!” he ordered.  “You’re asked to hurry!  Take up position on that rising ground and warm up the enemy’s retreat!”

“Limber up!” shouted Bellairs, coming to himself again.  Fifteen seconds later his two guns were thundering up the rise.

As he brought them to “action front” and tried to collect his thoughts to figure out the range, a finger touched his shoulder and he turned to see another artillery officer standing by him.

“I’ve been lent from another section,” he explained:  “You’re wanted.”

“Where?”

“Over there, where you see Colonel Carter standing.  It’s your wife wants you, I think!”

Bellairs did not wait for explanations.  He sent for his horse and mounted and rode across the intervening space at a breakneck gallop that he could barely stop in time to save himself from knocking the colonel over.  A second later he was in Ruth’s arms.

“I thought you were dead when I saw Shaitan!” he said.  He was nearly sobbing.

“No, Mahommed Khan rode him,” she answered, and she made no pretense about not sobbing.  She was crying like a child.

“Salaam, Bellairs sahib!” said a weak voice close to him.  He noticed Colonel Carter bending over a prostrate figure, lifting the head up on his knee.  There were three Rajputs standing between, though, and he could not see whose the figure was.

“Come over here!” said Colonel Carter, and young Bellairs obeyed him, leaving Ruth sitting on the ground where she was.

“Wouldn’t you care to thank Mohammed Khan?” It was a little cruel of the colonel to put quite so much venom in his voice, for, when all is said and done:  a man has almost a right to be forgetful when he has just had his young wife brought him out of the jaws of death.  At least he has a good excuse for it.  The sting of the reproof left him bereft of words and he stood looking down at the old Risaldar, saying nothing and feeling very much ashamed.