muzzle to his head and pulled the trigger.

His helmet having fallen off in the struggle, his own hair was singed by
the explosion, but he was free; the Arab rolled away from him, his head
shattered--a gruesome spectacle.

Just as Green got to his feet again, his two men appeared on the rock.
They had heard him call, and the voice had guided them in that
direction; and while they were hesitating the pistol-shot told them
exactly where their officer was.

"He is up here, and alive," said Green. "Run, one of you--you, Davis--
to the place where we saw the doctors and stretchers, and tell them.
Take good note of this spot, that you may not miss it. But I don't
think they are a thousand yards off."

"I shall know it, sir," said Davis, and he disappeared over the side of
the rock.

Green was now once more by Strachan's side, and with Gubbins' help got
him into a more comfortable position. The spear-head which had wounded
him, with a couple of feet of the shaft, lay close by, as if he had
pulled it out before losing consciousness. The rest of the shaft also
lay near, half cut through, half broken, close to the edge of the rock,
and underneath that spot, at the foot of the crag, was the body of an
Arab--head amongst the large stones, feet and legs uppermost--resting on
the steep side.

Probably it was the man who had speared Strachan, his weapon, previously
hacked nearly through, breaking with the thrust. And one of the
soldiers storming the rock had shot him as he was making off. As for
the disarmed man who had attacked Green, he had probably taken refuge up
there after the tide of battle had swept past, intending to escape at
nightfall, but the sight of a foe so close was too tempting for his
prudence.

All this, however, is only conjecture; the certain fact was that poor
Tom Strachan had a wide wound in the side, and that Green dared not move
him much, because it made the life-stream well out afresh. There was
nothing for it but to wait till medical aid arrived.

It is surprising what trivial ideas and memories, such as tags of old
songs, or anecdotes more or less appropriate to the occasion, will run
in our heads when we are anxious about anything, and are forced to
remain in inactivity. All the time certain lines of Sir Walter Scott
would worry Green, as he knelt there by his friend:

"That spear wound has our master sped;
And see the deep cut on his head.
Good-night to Marmion."

Over and ove