“But what would you do?” asked the woman, in alarm. “Drag him from his den, and shoot him like a dog.” “But surely you will not throw your life away for a worthless purpose?” “To bring down just punishment on the head of a double-dyed murderer is not a worthless purpose. I know the man well. His shop is in the bazaar, near the Nullah. At all hazards I go. If I return alive, I shall come back to Lieutenant Harper’s bungalow, in the lines. You hurry there without delay.” As Mehal saw that further opposition to the will of the “fiery Englishman” would be useless, she allowed him to go forth. He loosed his horse from the tree, and sprang into the saddle; and, drawing his revolver, gripped it firmly in his hand. The city was comparatively quiet as he rode out of the compound. The lurid flames from the burning bungalows were paling before the dawning light of day. Dead bodies of natives were lying about the streets, where they had fallen before the resistless charge of the British soldiers, who, in obedience to the bugle-call, were straggling back to their barracks. Gordon rode hurriedly forward, never drawing rein until he reached the bazaar. The ruffians of the gaols and the Goojur villages were slinking back to their homes with the coming of the morning light. The sudden presence of this dauntless white man appalled them; their cowardly natures caused them to crouch away like whipped curs, for it was only when banded together in large numbers that anything like courage animated their craven hearts. With lips compressed, brows knit, and chest thrown back, Walter threaded his way through the tortuous streets of the bazaar until he reached the shop of the butcher, Mezza Korash, who, wearied with the night’s work, had thrown himself down on a matting before his door. Without a moment’s hesitation Gordon jumped from his horse, and, seizing the murderer--who was a little thin man--in his powerful grip, he threw him, almost before he could realise his position, across his horse’s neck, and, springing up behind, galloped away amidst the shouts of the astonished natives, a few of whom sent random shots after the flying horseman, but without effect. Mezza struggled frantically to free himself from his captor; but he was like a pigmy in the hands of a Goliath. Gordon had twisted his hand in the man’s body-cloth, and held him in a vice-like grasp. When he reached the Mall he met a body of artillerymen, who were returning from the Delhi road, after having chased the mutineers for some miles. “I have captured a murderer,” cried Gordon, as he hurried up. “His hands are yet red with the blood of his victim. Shooting were too good for such a cur. A rope, men--a rope!”