Be assured that duffadar Faiz Talab did not fail to appropriate the thickest and strongest wall in support of his tactical scheme.

“The next thing to do,” yelled the unwilling general, “is to fire as rapidly as possible, so as to frighten the English thoroughly, before we sally forth and kill them.”  And suiting action to words Faiz Talab fired off his twenty rounds with great rapidity in the safest possible direction, and prayed God that he had not hit one of his own comrades.  At the same time he added a perhaps equally potent supplication, to the effect that his comrades might not be so careless or inconsiderate in their turn as to shoot him.

Having no more ammunition, Faiz Talab hugged his wall closer than a limpet, and noticed with growing satisfaction that ammunition was running out all along the line.  On the other hand, as an inquisitive neighbour, with two bullets in his puggery, pointed out, the English were advancing very quickly, apparently with plenty of ammunition, and were just at that moment fixing bayonets.

“Fixing bayonets!” exclaimed one and all; “then it is indeed necessary that we should depart, so that, by the grace of God, we may be ready to fight with renewed vigour on another day.”

“That is well spoken, brethren,” said Faiz Talab, and added with considerable pathos, “but as for me, I shall remain and die at my post.”

“Oh, say not so!” remarked one or two with polite, but not very insistent interest.

“Nothing will persuade me to move,” stubbornly reiterated the duffadar, devoutly praying that no one else would insist on sharing his bed of glory.

The English soldiers could now be heard talking plainly, and one, speaking louder than the rest, said, “Cease firing, fix bayonets, charge!” A loud hurrah! sounded, and then Faiz Talab found himself alone on his side of the wall.  That was all very well, but it was not of much avail to have escaped so far, to end his days with eighteen inches of a British bayonet through his best embroidered waistcoat.  If it had been any Indian regiment, or, better still, his own regiment, the Guides, he could at once have secured safety by declaring who he was.  But with British soldiers, none of whom would probably understand a word he said, and all heated with the excitement of battle, he might get the bayonet first and enquiry afterwards.  However, something had to be done; so up he jumped and, holding up his hands, yelled, “Stop! stop!  I am a friend of the British.”

“’Ullo, ‘ere’s another bloomin’ ghazi! ’ave at ’im, Bill!” was the brisk rejoinder, in the familiar tongue of a British soldier of the 17th Foot.

And “’ave at ’im” they most assuredly would, had not a British officer arrived in the very nick of time.  “He says he is a friend of the British,” the officer shouted; “give him quarter till we find out whether he speaks the truth or not.”

So reluctantly they made Faiz Talab a prisoner, temporarily postponing the pleasure of sending him to join his numerous friends in the ghazis’ Paradise.