"Don't lose heart. It's an ugly drop. But he fell clear of the tree; and these _khuds_ are the most chancy things imaginable. I'm off after him, as fast as hands and feet can take me." Speech was beyond her; but she thanked him with her eyes. A moment later he was kneeling in the mud, rapidly unfastening boots and gaiters; for one downward glance had convinced him that it would be a matter of climbing, and difficult climbing at that. By now Colonel Mayhew had dismounted also; and as Desmond stood upright--in socks and breeches--and flung aside his dripping helmet, the older man drew him to the path's edge. "Look here, my dear chap," he mid, when they were out of earshot of the group, who sat spellbound in the grip of tragedy, "are you justified in running a serious risk, probably--to no purpose? For I'm afraid poor Lenox hasn't a ghost of a chance. You're a married man, remember; and it looks to me uncommonly like madness to attempt that _khud_ in such weather. It'll be a case of holding on with your eyelids; and there's a coolie track not far from here, that leads down to the valley." Desmond's month took the dogged line that his _sowars_ knew and loved; and a combatant light flashed in his eyes. "Your blood's cooler than mine, sir," he answered quietly. "But I have a fairly steady head; and my wife would be the last person in the world to hold me back, thank God. In such cases five or ten minutes may mean just the difference between life . . . and death. If you will get together some sort of a stretcher--a good strong one--and come on post-haste down the coolie track, I'll be grateful. I suppose we haven't a drop of brandy among us?--bad luck to it!" "There's a provision _kilter_ on one of the coolies. Shall we have it turned out, on the chance?" "Good Lord, yes. Get it done at once, please." Then he turned to Garth. "I say, Major, gallop on, will you, and catch up Dr O'Malley. I saw him start with the last contingent. They can't be more than two miles ahead." And as Garth obeyed the peremptory request, the devil himself must have whispered to his heart the despicable suggestion that possibly Fate had struck a blow in his favour after all. Colonel Mayhew, meanwhile, rummaging feverishly in the depths of the _kilter_ with scant hope of success, bestrewed the wet earth on all sides of him with canned fruits, sardines, greasy jharrons, and crumpled wads of newspaper: till at length, like Hope out of Pandora's casket, there came forth from an unsuspicious-looking bundle of clothes half a bottle of brandy, stowed carefully away by the kitmutgar, for private ends best known to himself. Desmond, who stood by fuming with impatience to be gone, laid eager hands on it. "Lord, what a miracle! Pity there's no flask handy," he muttered, buttoning his coat, and thrusting the unwieldly impediment into a side-pocket. Then, catching sight of a horn tumbler among the _debris_, he picked it up, and drew out the bottle.