Mugambi, although not born in Waziri, had been adopted into the tribe,
which now contained no member more jealous of its traditions and its
prowess than he.

Achmet Zek drew to one side of his horde, speaking to his men in a low
voice. A moment later, without warning, a ragged volley was poured
into the ranks of the Waziri. A couple of warriors fell, the others
were for charging the attackers; but Mugambi was a cautious as well as
a brave leader. He knew the futility of charging mounted men armed
with muskets. He withdrew his force behind the shrubbery of the
garden. Some he dispatched to various other parts of the grounds
surrounding the bungalow. Half a dozen he sent to the bungalow itself
with instructions to keep their mistress within doors, and to protect
her with their lives.

Adopting the tactics of the desert fighters from which he had sprung,
Achmet Zek led his followers at a gallop in a long, thin line,
describing a great circle which drew closer and closer in toward the
defenders.

At that part of the circle closest to the Waziri, a constant fusillade
of shots was poured into the bushes behind which the black warriors had
concealed themselves. The latter, on their part, loosed their slim
shafts at the nearest of the enemy.

The Waziri, justly famed for their archery, found no cause to blush for
their performance that day. Time and again some swarthy horseman threw
hands above his head and toppled from his saddle, pierced by a deadly
arrow; but the contest was uneven. The Arabs outnumbered the Waziri;
their bullets penetrated the shrubbery and found marks that the Arab
riflemen had not even seen; and then Achmet Zek circled inward a half
mile above the bungalow, tore down a section of the fence, and led his
marauders within the grounds.

Across the fields they charged at a mad run. Not again did they pause
to lower fences, instead, they drove their wild mounts straight for
them, clearing the obstacles as lightly as winged gulls.

Mugambi saw them coming, and, calling those of his warriors who
remained, ran for the bungalow and the last stand. Upon the veranda
Lady Greystoke stood, rifle in hand. More than a single raider had
accounted to her steady nerves and cool aim for his outlawry; more than
a single pony raced, riderless, in the wake of the charging horde.

Mugambi pushed his mistress back into the greater security of the
interior, and with his depleted force prepared to make a last s