Shot through the head the man pitched forward on his face,
almost touching the soldier's feet. Dermot saw that the corpse was that of
a low-caste Hindu, clad only in a dirty cotton _koorta_ and _dhoti_. A
Tower musket lay beside him.
The wild firing died down again. The sun was setting; and the soldier
judged that the attackers were probably waiting for darkness to rush him.
Why they did not do so at once, since they were so numerous, surprised him;
but he surmised that it was lack of courage. It was maddening to be obliged
to await their pleasure. He was far more concerned about the girl than for
himself. A feeling of dread pity filled his heart when he thought of what
her fate would be when he was no longer alive to protect her. Should he
kill her, he asked himself, and give her a swift and merciful death instead
of the horrors of outrage and torture that would probably be her lot if she
fell alive into the hands of these murderous scoundrels? In those moments
of tension and terrible strain he realised that she was very dear to him,
that she evoked in his heart a feeling that no other woman had ever aroused
in him.
The sun was going down; and with it Dermot felt that his life was passing.
He grudged losing it in an obscure and causeless scuffle, instead of on an
honourable field of battle as a soldier should.
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