Already in
the distance he heard the dull clamour of voices raised in angry
remonstrance at the delay. Only those immediately about him were held
in awed silence by the power of his personality. Again Beatrice shook
her head. She stood in the doorway which opened out into the garden
where the besieged had taken refuge. There was no other way. He
advanced toward her. Instantly she raised her revolver and pointed it
at the first man behind him.
"If I fire," she said, "not even you will be able to hold them back."
It seemed to her that she stood like a frail wall between two
overwhelming forces--on the one side, Nehal with his thousands; on the
other, Nicholson--alone, truly, but armed with a set and pitiless
resolve. A single sentence, which had fallen upon her ears months
before, rose now out of an ocean of half-forgotten memories:
"Nicholson is the best shot in India," some one had said: "he never
misses." And still Nehal advanced. His jaws were locked, his eyes had
a red fire in them. She knew then that the hour of hesitation was
over, and that in that desperate struggle she had indeed lost.
Uncontrollable words of warning rushed to her lips.
"Nehal--turn back! Turn back!"
He did not understand her. He thought she was still pleading with him.
"I can not--God have pity on us both!"
Then she too set her lips. She could not betray the last hope of that
heroic handful of men and women behind her.
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