"It's all over, Frank, lad," cried Harry. "Let's get alongside Morris and Landon. They may make us prisoners, but the wretches' blood is up, and their only thoughts are to plunder and slay. Try and save them; here the wretches come." "Look, look!" cried Frank, for from their right front some four hundred yards away there was a gleam of steel, a glimpse of white helmets, and an opening outline of galloping horses racing out of a hollow. The evolution was brilliant, and before it seemed possible, the line of horsemen with lowered spears were upon the advancing dervish band, which had already got amongst the Emir's guard, fighting and dying in defence of their charge. A minute? More likely half a minute, and a couple of squadrons of British cavalry had ridden through the dervishes, leaving the earth cumbered with dead and wounded men, whose horses galloped wildly here and there. On went the cavalry, wheeled, and came back, cutting down all who resisted, the major portion of the enemy flying for their lives to east and north, for from the west a second squadron of the British horse was coming up at a gallop, a detachment checking and capturing the whole camel train. How it came about Frank hardly knew, but somehow, mounted as he was, he found himself with his brother close to where the Emir's officer, with a dozen of his men, had hacked their way from among a crowd of dervishes, just as the British cavalry had wheeled and come back, cutting up the assailants of the Emir's guards, and the next minute had nearly been Frank's last, for an English lancer rode in the _melee_ at the Emir's officer, who must have fallen had not a quick blow from Frank's sword turned the lance aside. The man passed on, but an officer dashed in, sword in hand, and Frank would have been laid low but for his brother's act. For Harry turned his horse and rode full at the advancing officer, their chargers coming together as he shouted wildly-- "Halt! Halt! English--English!" The officer turned upon him fiercely. "What?--Who are you?" "Frere, of Gordon's," shouted Harry. "But that black?" "My brother!" "Yes," cried Frank, in honest old English. "I was trying to save this brave man's life." "Then don't black your face first, youngster, next time," cried the officer, with a laugh, as he turned to find fresh food for his steel. But the enemy were flying fast, scattered, and leaving half their force upon the field. The recall was ringing out, and shortly after the English squadrons were making for Khartoum, with their prisoners and prizes, the former including the remains of the Emir's bodyguard, their captain and six of his followers, wounded to a man. That night Frank and his companions rested in Khartoum. It was the day of the oft-told scene when the Sirdar and his staff were gathered around with all the thrilling pomp of a military funeral, to pay the long-deferred honour at their hero's grave.