Roy looked—­and swore under his breath.  For the half-dispersed thousands were flowing together again like quicksilver.  The whole Hira Mundi region was packed with a seething dangerous mob, completely out of hand, amenable to nothing but force.

And now from the doors of the Mosque fresh thousands, inflamed by fanatical speeches, were swarming across the open plain to join them, flourishing their lathis with threatening gestures and cries....

It was a sight to shake the stoutest heart.  Armed, they were not; but the lathi is a deadly weapon at close quarters; and their mere numbers were overwhelming.  Roy, by this time, was sick of their everlasting yells; their distorted faces full of hate and fury; their senseless abuse of ‘tyrants,’ who were exercising a patience almost superhuman.

An order was shouted for the troops to turn and hold them.  Carnegie, of the police, dashed off to the head of the column that was nearing the gate of exit; and the cavalry lined up in support of Mr Elton, who still exhorted, still tried to make himself heard by those who were determined not to hear.

Directly they moved forward, there was a fierce, concerted rush; lathis in the forefront, bricks and stones hurtling, as at Anarkalli, but with fiercer intent.

A large stone whizzed past the ear of an impassive Sikh Ressaldar; half a brick caught Roy on the shoulder; another struck Suraj on the flank and slightly disturbed his equanimity.

While Roy was soothing him, came a renewed rush, the crowd pushing boldly in on all sides with evident intent to cut them off from the rest.

The line broke.  There was a moment of sickening confusion.  A howling man, brandishing a lathi, made a dash at Roy, a grab at his charger’s rein....

One instant his heart stood still; the next, Lance dashed in between, riding-crop lifted, unceremoniously hustling Roy, and nearly oversetting his assailant—­but not quite——­

Down came the leaded stick on the back of his bridle hand, cutting it open, grazing and bruising the flesh.  With an oath he dropped the reins and seized them in his right hand.

“Rather neatly done!” he remarked, smiling at the dismay in Roy’s eyes.  “Ought to have floored him, though—­the murdering brute!”

“Lance, you’d no business——­”

“Oh, drop it.  This isn’t polo.  It’s a game of Aunt Sally.  No charge for a shy——!” As he spoke, a sharp fragment of brick struck his cheek and drew blood.  “Damn them.  Getting above themselves.  If it rested with me I’d charge.  We can hold ’em, though.  Straighten the line.”

“But your hand——­”

“My hand can wait.  I’ve got another.”  And he rode on leaving Roy with a burning inner sense as of actual coals of fire heaped on his unworthy self.

But urgent need for action left no leisure for thought.  Somehow the line was straightened; somehow they extricated themselves from the embarrassing attentions of the mob.  Carnegie returned with armed police; and four files were lined up in front of the troops; the warning clearly given; the response—­fresh uproar, fresh showers of stones....