The movement was at once reported by the British outposts, but troops take some few minutes to arm, equip, and form up in line of battle; while the Affghan border warrior moves with a swiftness that may well cause panic and dismay.  A young subaltern of the Guides, Lieutenant G.N.  Hardinge, seeing how matters were trending, rode out to the outlying picket of the Guides’ cavalry, and there took his stand.  It was an anxious moment.  Behind him was the hastily arming camp, humming with the bustle of preparation; and before him, advancing across the stony plain, moved a line of skirmishers backed up by closed supports, and followed by great hordes of shouting warriors.

The motionless troop of the Guides stood foremost to meet the shock.  On came the hardy tribesmen swiftly and relentlessly; but still, as he looked anxiously back, it was plain to the British subaltern that his comrades were not yet armed to meet the coming storm.  “We can only give them one minute more,” he said, and stout and steady came the answer:  “Yes, your Honour, one minute more.”  And as they spoke each stalwart trooper gripped his sword still tighter and, shortening his reins, laid the flat of his thigh hard on his wiry neighing stallion; for as of old, so now, the war-horse scented the battle from afar.

The time passed very slowly, a minute seeming an eternity to the impatient soldiers.  Fifteen seconds—­twenty seconds—­thirty seconds—­for—­ty-five seconds—­six—­ty!

“Carry swords,” in a serene and conversational voice remarked the young subaltern; equally smoothly and quietly came the order, “Walk, march.”  Then, as the troop moved forward, followed the slightly more animated command, “Trot”; and as the excitement of coming conflict coursed with the wild exuberance of youth through the boy’s veins, “Gallop!  Charge!” he yelled, and back came an answering shout, “Fear not, Sahib, we are with you!” And thus was launched on the flood of death a little band of heroes, that they might save an army.

But ever since the day when David slew Goliath, the God of Battles has not always sided with the big battalions.  A few staunch hearts hurled fearlessly at the foe may still, like the ancient slinger’s stone, lay low the giant.  So on this occasion the effect of the bold attack was magical.  Through the thin line of skirmishers, heedless of the spluttering fire, went the troop, like a round shot through a paper screen, and fell like yelling furies on the clumps of swordsmen, pikemen, and any-weapon-men, who formed the supports.  These they killed and wounded and scattered like chaff to the wind.  And then,—­their mission was accomplished!  The enemy’s advancing masses wavered, halted, hesitation and dismay replacing the confident sling-trot of a few minutes before.  The surprise had failed, the camp was saved.  Then Hardinge, his work accomplished, himself sore wounded, the enemy’s standard in his hands, rallied his pursuing troop, and clearing to a flank left displayed the British force drawn up and ready to receive all comers.