“There’s some one coming, sir, hard as he can gallop!  He’s one of our men by the sound of him.  His horse is shod—­and I thought I saw steel when the fire-light fell on him a minute ago!”

“Are you sure there’s only one?”

“Sure, sir!  You can hear him now!”

“All right!  Fall in behind me!”

Bellairs felt his sword-hilt and cocked a pistol stealthily, but he gave no orders to the section.  This might be a native soldier run amuck, and it might be a messenger; but in either case, friend or foe, if there was only one man he could deal with him alone.

“Halt!” roared the advance-guard suddenly.  But the horse’s hoof-beats never checked for a single instant.

“Halt, you!  Who comes there?”

“Friend!” came the answer, in an accent that was unmistakable.

“What friend?  Where are you going?”

One of the advance-guard reined his horse across the road.  The others followed suit and blocked the way effectually.  “Halt!” they roared in unison.

The main body of the advance came up with them.

“Who is he?” shouted the sergeant.

“We’ll soon see!  Here he comes!”

“Out of my way!” yelled a voice, as a foamed-flecked horse burst out of the darkness like an apparition and bore straight down on them—­his head bored a little to one side, the red rims of his nostrils wide distended and his whole sense and energy, and strength concentrated on pleasing the speed-hungry Irishman who rode him.  He flashed into them head-on, like a devil from the outer darkness.  His head touched a man’s knee—­and he rose and tried to jump him!  “His breast crashed full into the obstruction and horse and gunner crashed down to the road.

A dozen arms reached out—­twelve horses surged in a clattering melee—­ two hands gripped the reins and four arms seized the rider, and in a second the panting charger was brought up all-standing.  The sergeant thrust his grim face closer and peered at their capture.

“Good—­, if it ain’t an officer!” he exclaimed.  “I beg your pardon, sir!”

And at that instant the section rattled, up behind them, with Bellairs in the lead.

“Halt!” roared Bellairs.  “What’s this?”

“Bloody murder, arson, high treason, mutiny and death!  Blood and onions, man!  Don’t your men know an officer when they see one?  Who are you?  Are you Bellairs?  Then why in God’s name didn’t you say so sooner?  What have you waited for?

How many hours is it since you got the message through from Jundhra?  Couldn’t you see the barracks burning?  Who am I—­I’m Captain O’Rourke, of the Thirty-third, sent to see what you’re doing on the road, that’s who I am!  A full-fledged; able-bodied captain wasted in a crisis, just because you didn’t choose to hurry!  Poison take your confounded gunners, sir!  Have they nothing better to engage them than holding up officers on the Queen’s trunk road?