Half my defenders were down, the others had dropped from the windows in
spite of the depth, and two men with levelled bayonets dashed at me.
I did not think I could have done it, but I had worked hard at sword
practice, and with a parry I turned one bayonet aside, avoided the other
with a bound, and sent the man who would have run me through, down on
his knees, with a terrible cut across the ear.
The others turned upon me, but I had found my tongue.
"Halt! Back, you idiots!" I roared. "I am a friend."
"Oh, bedad, an' I don't belave ye," cried one of the party, as the
others hesitated; and he held his bayonet to my breast. "Give up yez
sword, or I'll make a cockchafer of ye."
I turned his point, and cut at another man frantically, for they were
too much excited to listen to explanations. But in another instant I
believe I should have been bayoneted, if there had not been a wild cry,
and a dark figure rushed between me and my dangerous friends.
"Stop, he's a sahib," roared the new-comer, and I saw it was Dost.
"Then he's me prisoner, and that sword's me loot," cried the Irishman.
"Stand back!" I roared. "I am Lieutenant Vincent, of Captain Brace's
troop."