"Thank heaven, Audley Trevelyan, I have repaid Sybil's debt to you--we are quits at last," was Denzil's thought, and he was turning away to hasten after the Company, for not a moment could be lost now, if he wished to save his own life, when suddenly he received a dreadful blow on the back part of the head--he heard the explosion of a pistol--the light went out of his eyes, or a darkness seemed to descend upon him; he fell forward on the snow with outspread hands, and remembered no more. The wretch whose life he had just spared, had felled him to the earth by a stroke from a ponderous iron-butted pistol, and then discharged it at Audley, without effect, however, as the ball missed its object. Treherne, who by this time had reloaded, shot the Afghan through the head, and then he and Audley Trevelyan had to run for their lives, as by this time the six Ressallahs of advancing Horse were close at hand, and cries of "_Ullah ul Alla_" loaded the frosty air. "Poor Devereaux--gone with the rest!" exclaimed Polwhele. "Yes," said Waller, "how many a poor fellow, gayer and happier than he apparently was, goes into action, confidently believing the bullet is not yet cast that shall floor him, and is shot for all that." "Well--it may be our turn next, sir," said Sergeant Treherne, philosophically. Fain would Waller and the rest have made a rally to bring him off dead or alive, at the bayonet's point, together with the body of Trecarrel; but the bugles of the rear-guard--first two, then four at once--were sounding, as if angrily, the order to _retire_ so, to "retire" he was compelled, or sacrifice perhaps his whole Company; and with tears in his eyes, where tears had not been since he was a child, in a white pinafore, at school, he drew off the survivors of the futile skirmish, and rejoined his brigade. "Where is Papa?" asked an agitated voice. It was Mabel who addressed him, her face whiter, if possible, than ever. Waller pointed with his sword towards the Pass and mournfully shook his head. "Wounded?" "Oh, my darling--killed, and poor young Devereaux, too, I greatly fear." Mabel heard him as if turned to stone. Rose gone, and now her father too! Poor Denzil she never thought of, for great grief is selfish at times. "Dearest Mabel," said Waller, "I do not ask you 'to compose yourself,' as people always say in such cases; I am a bad comforter perhaps--can't quote Scripture and all that sort of thing. The poor old man had not many years before him any way, and I can only implore you to submit to the will of God." But she could only weep upon his breast, heedless of those around them. "Where was he struck?" she asked, in a choking voice. "I don't know," replied Waller, looking down. "Did he die easily?" "Yes." Neither of these answers was true: but he knew that details would only harrow her feelings the more.