Then I caught my foot in some snag and nearly fell. Something tore across my face, and I heard the girl give a little faint cry. An arrow had flicked in between us as I stumbled and, tearing open my cheek, had grazed a couple of inches below her right shoulder. But she didn’t scream, just looked down at the wound and up at me again. I must have been a fairly unpleasing sight by that time, panting for breath, with the blood streaming down from my face on to her white neck and shoulders. But Payindah had got back on to the arrow-slits, I think. Two last arrows flicked past, one passably near, the other a good bit overhead. There were only thirty yards to go now, and it was done at a stumbling walk. Thank goodness, no more arrows came, and then I got round the corner of the rock, where Payindah’s rifle--the sweetest music I have ever heard--cracked steadily above me, and, I am ashamed to say, slid forward on to my knees, nearly pitching on my face altogether. Luckily I saved myself. Then I laid the girl down, mopped the blood off my face with my sleeve, and fumbled for my knife. As I was getting the knife out, I called to Payindah to ask if he wanted aid. “No need, sahib. These spawn of hell have shut the gate, and now they dare not even shoot from the loopholes. Three lie dead in the open, and two more are dying noisily near them.” He fired a burst of rapid shots, and then, stopping, hurriedly slipped off his _poshtin_ and pushed it down to me, saying as he took up his rifle again, “The memsahib will be cold.” Payindah, like most decent fighting men, is a gentleman of nature. So I turned again to the girl, who was sitting up, and with a somewhat unsteady hand hacked and tore at the twisted leather that bound her arms. The man who had tied her up was an artist and also a fiend. She told me later that he was the third man who followed us, the one whose back Payindah had broken. It took me with a sharp knife about three minutes to get her arms loose. The swine had wound the raw hides into a sort of crisscross network, and pulled it up so that her arms practically met from the wrists to the elbows behind her back. Her nails were blue, and her hands all swollen up with great knotted veins standing out. She was a good plucked ’un not to scream while I tried to get her free. When I’d cut the last of the knots and peeled off the ropes which had sunk into weals in the flesh, though luckily not breaking the skin, her arms fell limp and helpless to her sides. With my handkerchief I wiped the blood off her shoulder and then tied it up. There was only a small tear an inch or so long, and not deep. Then I pulled Payindah’s _poshtin_ on to her, and settling her against a rock tried to massage her arms. Once the blood started moving, she nearly fainted, and I could see the pain was pretty bad. Luckily I had the little brandy-flask I always carry, so I poured some out and held it to her lips.