A tremor of cold fear ran through our hero's frame as he found himself armed only with a useless sword-hilt wherewith to defend himself. The vile Mahratta raised his pistol, and, at a distance of three paces, fired point blank at the lad's breast. Ted Russell's career would have ended then and there had not his Arab, at the very moment that the trigger was pulled, trodden on the edge of a naked blade. The horse reared, received the bullet in its head, and rolled over dead, almost crushing its rider.
One Sikh and one only of the reckless few who had galloped in the wake of Ted and Govind Singh remained alive, and he was unhorsed and fighting valiantly on foot. He hacked his way to the rescue of his officer, and wounded the pandy who, having disarmed Ted, was about to deal a finishing blow. Then he in his turn was laid low. Ted still had his revolver; raising himself on his elbow he took aim at the Nana, who instantly set spurs to his horse, and his two surviving retainers followed his example. But Ted had the Mahratta rajah covered. Filled with exultation at the thought that the murderer was at last at his mercy he pulled the trigger.
There was no report, and he realized with a heavy heart that the weapon's chambers were all empty, that the arch-traitor had escaped, and that he was helpless!
He rose and looked about him, and a reaction of thankfulness followed the bitter disappointment as the thought stole upon him that he had escaped with no injury more serious than a scratch or two. He perceived that it was lucky that his enemies, as well as he himself, had been under the impression that the revolver was still loaded. What would have been his fate had they known the truth?
He began to search for Govind Singh's body. The veteran risaldar had ceased to breathe; he had died as he would have wished, fighting against odds. The boy had come to regard his grim old comrade with an affection that had been returned by the risaldar. The other Sikhs were also all dead, so fierce had been the hand-to-hand combat; and of the Nana's following at least a dozen were slain or were dying. One of the latter, a youngster barely sixteen, was regarding the Feringhi with eyes in which hatred and a desire to propitiate struggled mutely for mastery. Ted divined the meaning of that look and hastened to hand his water-bottle to the sufferer, who greedily gulped the water down and regarded his benefactor with gratitude.