They followed the Mahratta horseman, and, having reached the group, surrounded them. Then, at the order of the messenger, those of the enemy who were still mounted threw themselves from their saddles and tossed their arms to the ground. But Owen took little notice of them, for in their midst, unseen till this moment, was the figure of their leader, dressed in his Mahratta finery, ghastly pale, and stretched on the ground, with his head supported on the flank of a fallen horse. His eyes were closed, and that, with the deathly pallor of his face and the bandage about his head, gave him such a ghastly appearance that all thought he was dead. But he opened his eyes feebly as Owen and Mulha advanced on foot, and smiled at them. Then, with an obvious effort, he lifted a hand and signalled to them to come quite close. "Have no fear," he said faintly. "The man who sent a threatening note is past performing violence. His course is run, and even a bitter enemy would not care to triumph over him. Come closer, Owen Marshall." Owen Marshall! The name startled our hero, and he stood for more than a minute staring at the figure of the fallen Colonel. Then pity for the unfortunate officer took the place of the dislike he had formerly felt, and he kneeled beside him, taking his hand and looking into his face. "Bring some spirit, Mulha," he said. "There is a flask in my holster, and it may do some good. Get it quickly." "It will give me strength, but not life," was the answer, as the Colonel again smiled at him. "That is for ever forfeited, for no man can suffer such a wound as I have and live. Listen, Owen Marshall; yes, that is your name, Owen Marshall, son of Captain Marshall, once of the Company's service. Listen. I will speak in Mahratti, for I know little English. This Captain Marshall----" A violent fit of coughing arrested his words and shook his frame so much that Owen thought that life itself would have departed. Blood flecked his lips and cheek, while his pallor became even more pronounced. Beneath the sickly beams cast by the moon Colonel Le Pourton looked as if he had breathed his last, as if his troubles, his hatreds, and his intrigues were ended for ever. But Mulha arrived at that instant, and Owen contrived to force a few drops of spirit between the dying man's lips. "No man can suffer such a hurt and live," repeated the Colonel with a sigh, and a sad smile, as he placed his feeble hand against his side. "Your British horses are magnificent. Their lances are terrible! Truly there is little wonder that you conquer. But I must not waste time, for my hours are few and my breath comes shorter. Closer! Closer, so that you can hear my whisper."