"Beatrice, do not deceive yourself. Though my life is nothing to me--though I would give it a dozen times to save you--I can not do otherwise than go on. I may be weak, but I shall be stronger than my weakness. My word is given!" He spoke with the tempestuous energy of despair. The minutes were passing with terrible swiftness, and any moment the sea behind him might burst its dam and sweep her and him to destruction. Already in the distance he heard the dull clamour of voices raised in angry remonstrance at the delay. Only those immediately about him were held in awed silence by the power of his personality. Again Beatrice shook her head. She stood in the doorway which opened out into the garden where the besieged had taken refuge. There was no other way. He advanced toward her. Instantly she raised her revolver and pointed it at the first man behind him. "If I fire," she said, "not even you will be able to hold them back." It seemed to her that she stood like a frail wall between two overwhelming forces--on the one side, Nehal with his thousands; on the other, Nicholson--alone, truly, but armed with a set and pitiless resolve. A single sentence, which had fallen upon her ears months before, rose now out of an ocean of half-forgotten memories: "Nicholson is the best shot in India," some one had said: "he never misses." And still Nehal advanced. His jaws were locked, his eyes had a red fire in them. She knew then that the hour of hesitation was over, and that in that desperate struggle she had indeed lost. Uncontrollable words of warning rushed to her lips. "Nehal--turn back! Turn back!" He did not understand her. He thought she was still pleading with him. "I can not--God have pity on us both!" Then she too set her lips. She could not betray the last hope of that heroic handful of men and women behind her. He must go to his death--and she to hers. She fired,--whether with success or not, she never knew. In that same instant another sound broke upon their ears--the sound of distant firing, the rattle of drums and the high clear call of a trumpet. Nehal Singh swung around. She caught a glimpse of his face through the smoke, and she saw something written there which she could not understand. She only knew that his features seemed to bear a new familiarity, as though a mask had been torn from them, revealing the face of another man, of a man whom she had seen before, when and where she could not tell. She had no time to analyze her emotions nor the sense of violent shock which passed over her. She heard Nehal Singh giving sharp, rapid orders in Hindustani. The room emptied. She saw him follow the retreating natives. At the door he turned and looked back at her. At no time had his love for her revealed itself more clearly than in that last glance. "The English regiment has come to help you," he said. "Fate has intervened between us this time. May we never meet again!"