He paused for a moment, irresolute whether to trust to them or--what? Meet death amid the flames which had cut off his retreat, and all chance of rejoining his struggling companions--the flames that were fast ascending in the tower from storey to storey, and would soon be bursting through the flat roof on which he stood, for already the smoke was rising like a black column through the trap-door by which he had reached it. He failed to see the fierce expression of mockery and derision which was in the dark faces of the four men below, and, deeming it wiser to risk and trust them than to perish amid the flames, he dropped into the rug, in which they received him with shrill yells of triumph, for the plunder of his person, combined with his murder, were their objects. But Colville was too quick for them. In leaping over he had relinquished the rifle he had been using for his sword, and with the latter, after baffling an attempt they made to muffle or bundle him up in the rug, while they were staggering beneath his weight, he waved them back just as they rushed upon him with their sharp charahs, and such blind hate and fury that they all wounded each other. He then put his back against the wall, and kept them at bay with his sword-blade and levelled revolver, which, although they knew not, was unfortunately empty. Streaming with blood from the wounds they had inflicted on each other, they strove to close in upon him, and speedily several budmashes with sword and shield, and other villains variously armed, came upon the scene, and their cries were loud and fierce. 'Astafferullah! put his head in a bhoosa bag, or one stuffed with chillies!' 'No, let it be in a bag of red pepper, and then let him die the death of the doomed!' That he would have been bayoneted or shot and cut to pieces there and then was beyond a doubt, had not a horseman furiously intervened by dashing his steed between him and the rabble, who recoiled in recognition of his presence and authority as a sirdir, and he presented his right hand to Colville, exclaiming, 'I ate of your bread and salt on that night when you saved me from the Wahabi dogs in Jellalabad, and when I swore by the Koran and by the Five Keys of Knowledge never to forget your kindness--nor do I now!' As he spoke Colville, even in that supreme moment of excitement and most deadly peril, recognised again Mahmoud Shah, the mock Hadji, with the Israeliteish features, the complexion fairer than most Afghans, and the livid sword-mark that traversed his right cheek. The fanatic, for such he was, had for Colville gratitude, and when that exists there is always good-will. Mechanically the latter grasped the hand held out to him, while the scowling mob, with gleaming eyes and weapons, dark and scowling visages, drew back. 'So--sirdir--you and the Hadji Mahmoud are the same?' exclaimed Colville. 'One and the same--I am that eater of dirt!' he added, to show his humility.