Oman recovered himself swiftly, and drew back from the body beneath him. His attempt had been vain. Viradha lay supine upon his horse, limp and motionless, the bright life-blood gushing out of his very heart. He was dead. Oman knew it before he looked. The hope of Mandu was gone; and, in the same instant, the battle was ended. Like one in a dream Oman heard the din gradually fade into silence, and saw the great Moslem chief lean over, draw his weapon from the young body, and then straighten up and look about him with a half smile. The Manduvians, those that remained, had lowered their arms, and were piteously begging for quarter. But Mohammed spares not the unfaithful. Oman, perceiving what a hideous, silent carnage was beginning, felt a new rush of fury, and hurled himself at the Mohammedan leader, the slayer of Viradha. At once two other Arabs fell upon him, from the right and from the left, and Oman surrendered, as the general gave two or three sharp orders, and the soldiers, stopping short in their attack, seized Oman by the arms, lifted him forcibly from the saddle, and dragged him down till he stood on his feet. Then they led him back along the causeway to one of the empty watch-towers. Into this they climbed with him, bound him fast, hand and foot, with his own sash and two leathern straps from their accoutrements, and then, with some words incomprehensible to him, they descended to the bridge again, leaving him alone. For a moment his thoughts swam through seas of blood. After that, the deadly reaction of passion setting in, he mercifully fainted. He was unconscious for a long time. When he came to himself again, there was a singular stillness around him:—the stillness of many dead, not to be broken by the faint, indistinguishable sounds of the horde on the plateau. It was late in the afternoon; for the sunlight was pouring through an opening in the west wall of the watch-tower. Oman looked into the yellow light till he was half blinded. Then he closed his eyes. He was in great pain; and half of him was numb with lying for so long in one position. Unknown to himself, he had, in the battle, received one or two wounds, not serious, unfelt, indeed, in the excitement, but which now troubled him severely. This, and the ache of his arms and ankles where the fetters held him, threw him into a kind of stupor of pain. He could hear the flies buzzing over his blood; but he could not think of anything. Why should he? Everything was gone; and the mass of fact was too overwhelming to be realized. His brain, recently overactive, was as weary as his body. He was aware only of the lengthening afternoon, his own pain, and his rising thirst.