He had come within about five miles of the mine when a prolonged miss-fire made it imperative to descend at once. Luckily there was just room for him to alight at the edge of a small wooded tract. He was the more perturbed at the delay because he heard distinctly the dull rumble of artillery fire in the north. Stripping off his coat, he began with Fazl’s help to overhaul the engines. Apparently the defect was in the carburetter, but for some little time the precise origin of the mis-fire was undiscoverable. Meanwhile the depths of the valley were already shrouded in dusk, and Lawrence, never having attempted a flight by night, became more and more anxious as time went on, lest he should be overtaken by complete darkness before he regained the platform. At last the defect was ascertained and remedied. Lawrence had just put on his coat, and Fazl was in the act of replacing the plugs, when there was a sudden volley from the wood near by, and six wild and haggard Kalmucks came towards the aeroplane with a rush. The Gurkha went on calmly with his work: Lawrence snatched up his rifle and fired. One of the attackers fell; the rest dashed on only the more furiously, howling like famished animals. Lawrence fired again; Fazl started the engine; both then sprang to their places, and pressing the throttle Lawrence set the machine gliding forward. By this time the Kalmucks were within a few yards. Fazl stooped for his rifle, to take a parting shot at them. As he rose he noticed that an extraordinary thing had happened. Just as the aeroplane was lifting, one of the Kalmucks, outstripping the rest, had taken a grip of the chassis, as if attempting to drag it down. He retained his grasp a little too long, and was carried up into the air. Fazl now saw him convulsively drawing himself up to clutch one of the stays of the main plane. What had happened was hidden from Lawrence by the projecting planes. Fazl made no sound; but there was an odd look upon his face as he quietly slipped a cartridge into the breech of his rifle, took careful aim at one of the four men on the track below, and brought him to the ground. "Tchigin, sahib," he said. "Never mind about the Kalmucks," said Lawrence. "Just fill up the tank, will you?" Fazl laid down his rifle, took a petrol can, and poured its contents into the tank below the pilot’s seat. There was nothing of haste or excitement in his manner. He tipped the can until the last drop was drained, and having set it down, rubbed his hands on his coat. Then he drew his kukuri, and bent over slowly towards the Kalmuck, who was clinging to the stay in grim and speechless terror. Fazl gazed steadily into the man’s eyes. He lifted his terrible weapon; there was one swift whizzing stroke through the air; and the lost man fell headlong into the river, three hundred feet below. Fazl wiped his blade. "What’s that?" asked Lawrence, as the aeroplane gave a sudden upward jerk. "Nurla Bai, sahib."