The victors press on in pursuit. Some fleet-footed fellows outstrip the rest. Look at that black-bearded Guide running to overtake with his lance one of the fleeing men! Ah! he stumbles over a rock, staggers, falls at full length; and the fugitive, but a yard or two ahead, turns to cleave him as he lies. Two or three join him; he has his sword uplifted to strike, when a British lieutenant runs up and fells him with a pistol-shot. His comrades close round and beset the Englishman, four to one. Dafadar Sherdil Khan attempts to rise, but one of the enemy deals him a blow that disables him. The officer flings his pistol at the head of one man, then with his sword wards off the desperate thrusts of the others. If he stands merely on the defensive he will be overborne by numbers: there is no help at hand. Gathering his strength he rushes into the midst of the group. It breaks apart; in an instant he springs to the man on the right and cuts him down. Then he turns to deal with the rest. One is running again to the prostrate dafadar. With great leaps the lieutenant makes after him, and reaches him just in time to prevent the fatal blow. And then, as the Englishman turns once more to face the odds, a handful of the Royal Bengals come up at the double, and sweep upon the hapless tribesmen; not one of them escapes. * * * * * James Barclay had returned to his corps. Many of his old friends were gone, but Sherdil remained, and none was more delighted than he to welcome Ahmed Khan, after his five years' absence, as a British officer. And when, at Hoti-Mardan, some months after the fight at the Crag, it became known that Lieutenant Barclay of the Guides had been awarded the little bronze cross "For Valour," it was Sherdil, whose life he had saved, that led the troopers in their round of cheers. Lieutenant Barclay did not forget to visit his adoptive father. Old Ahsan, bent, and very frail, knew him before he reached the gate, and his withered face beamed as he saluted him: "Salaam, hazur: truly Allah is great!" Rahmut Khan gave him a royal welcome. "Still art thou my son!" he cried, "and the sight of thee is very good." He had loyally held to his compact with Jan Larrens, and the British raj had no warmer friend on the frontiers than he. Age had laid its icy finger on him; the tale of his years was well-nigh told. Only one thing troubled his peace of mind: neither Dilasah nor Minghal Khan had tasted his vengeance. Dilasah had fled from the village at the first news that the chief was returning home; and of Minghal, though he had sought diligently, he had discovered no trace.