"What do you suppose that they will do with us, Cochrane?" he asked
after a pause.

"They may cut our throats, or they may take us as slaves to Khartoum.
I don't know that there is much to choose. There's one of us out of his
troubles anyhow."

The soldier next them had sat down abruptly, and leaned forward over his
knees. His movement and attitude were so natural that it was hard to
realise that he had been shot through the head. He neither stirred nor
groaned. His comrades bent over him for a moment, and then, shrugging
their shoulders, they turned their dark faces to the Arabs once more.
Belmont picked up the dead man's Martini and his ammunition-pouch.

"Only three more rounds, Cochrane," said he, with the little brass
cylinders upon the palm of his hand. "We've let them shoot too soon,
and too often. We should have waited for the rush."

"You're a famous shot, Belmont," cried the Colonel. "I've heard of you
as one of the cracks. Don't you think you could pick off their leader?"

"Which is he?"

"As far as I can make out, it is that one on the white camel on their
right front. I mean the fellow who is peering at us from under his two
hands."

Belmont thrust in his cartridge and altered the sights. "It's a
shocking bad light for judging distance," said he. "This is where the
low point-blank trajectory of the Lee-Metford comes in useful. Well,