At last, after another fifteen minutes’ struggle, a dark mass of trees loomed up ahead. It was the grove of cedars by the eastern wall of the fort. They were within sight of safety now. Still the Chitralis hovered round, however, and a chance shot hit Baird as he hung limp in the surgeon’s arms. “Make for the garden entrance!” cried Whitchurch; and the Ghurkas turned to pass through the grove. On their right, by the main gates, was a confused sound of shouting and firing. The enemy had already gathered in force there. As they neared the entrance in the garden and gave a ringing cheer, the sentries saw them. In a minute the gate was unbolted, and the little party scrambled through, but not before Baird was yet a third time hit--on this occasion in the face, as his head rested on Whitchurch’s shoulder. How often has it happened in similar rescues, that the wounded has been the target for the enemy’s bullets, while the rescuer has escaped scot free! It was the story of “Dhoolie Square” repeated again, the story of McManus, Ryan, and Captain Arnold. Inside the fort enclosure the officers gathered quickly round Whitchurch as the glad cry went up, “They’ve brought Baird in!” And tenderly, very tenderly, for he was suffering greatly from his hurts, the wounded officer was carried to the hospital, where without any loss of time the surgeon followed to save, if possible, the life that was so dear to them all. I should much like to add that he was successful; but fate willed otherwise. Captain Baird lived only a few hours, and the fort that he had helped to defend so gallantly served as his grave. Chitral was relieved about the middle of April, when a British column succeeded in fighting its way to the fort through the mountain passes. Three months later the _London Gazette_ contained the welcome announcement that the Victoria Cross had been awarded to Surgeon-Captain Harry Frederick Whitchurch, of the Indian Medical Service. Her Majesty Queen Victoria herself pinned the Cross on the brave surgeon’s breast at Osborne, with warm words of praise that were echoed by every one who had heard the story of that plucky night-rescue in far-off Chitral. CHAPTER XXVII. WHEN THE AFRIDIS WERE UP. One hundred and forty miles south of Chitral, as the crow flies, is the border city of Peshawar, standing like a sentinel on the north-western frontier of India. It is, indeed, the guardian of the gate, for before it winds westward the famous Khyber Pass, which links Afghanistan with our great Eastern Empire.