It is a bleak, raw day in November, 1863. A field force of all arms, under Sir Neville Chamberlain, is encamped in the rocky country of Umbeyla; their duty is to punish the tribesmen who, led by a fierce and fanatical mullah, have long been giving trouble. Above their camp towers an abrupt and precipitous rock, known as the Crag, and its summit is held by a picket of the 1st Panjab Infantry, a hundred and twenty strong. Twice already has the enemy, creeping up in thousands on the other side from the lower hills, driven the picket from its post, and twice has the position been recaptured at the point of the bayonet. And on this 13th of November the wild tribesmen have for the third time swarmed up to the attack, in such overwhelming force that the Crag's handful of defenders is driven back, and comes in full flight down the narrow rocky path that leads to the encampment below.

A panic seizes the camp-followers; they run hither and thither, crying that all is lost. But detachments of the Guides and the 1st Panjab Infantry gallantly climb the steep ascent, and press doggedly up and up in face of a murderous fire from the summit. They have nearly reached the top; but what can a few hundreds, even of British troops, do against the horde of fierce warriors above them? They halt; their leader sends down word that he can barely hold his own, much less retake the Crag, and asks for supports. He is almost giving way when up comes Major Ross with more Guides and more Panjabis, who scale the precipitous bluff and almost gain the crest. They, too, are checked; the dauntless fanatics above will not yield; their numbers are continually increased, and with furious and exultant cries they withstand every assault upon their vantage ground.

From the camp below Sir Neville Chamberlain watches the fight. The moment is critical; if the enemy maintain their hold on the Crag he will have to retire. It must be retaken at all costs. He orders the 101st Royal Bengal Fusiliers to the front, and more companies of the Guides; and since this is no ground for cavalry work, let the troopers dismounted share in the assault. The gallant fellows are nothing loath. Up they go, lightly as only hill-men can. Heedless of the bullets that shower among them, they force their way steadily to the crest, and then the word is given to charge.

The line sweeps forward with a cheer—the infantry with fixed bayonets, the troopers with lance and sword. They dash full into the midst of the brave enemy; there is a shock, a slight check, and then the tribesmen falter, give back, and are driven down the slope.

The victors press on in pursuit. Some fleet-footed fellows outstrip the rest. Look at that black-bearded Guide running to overtake with his lance one of the fleeing men! Ah! he stumbles over a rock, staggers, falls at full length; and the fugitive, but a yard or two ahead, turns to cleave him as he lies. Two or three join him; he has his sword uplifted to strike, when a British lieutenant runs up and fells him with a pistol-shot. His comrades close round and beset the Englishman, four to one. Dafadar Sherdil Khan attempts to rise, but one of the enemy deals him a blow that disables him. The officer flings his pistol at the head of one man, then with his sword wards off the desperate thrusts of the others. If he stands merely on the defensive he will be overborne by numbers: there is no help at hand. Gathering his strength he rushes into the midst of the group. It breaks apart; in an instant he springs to the man on the right and cuts him down. Then he turns to deal with the rest. One is running again to the prostrate dafadar. With great leaps the lieutenant makes after him, and reaches him just in time to prevent the fatal blow. And then, as the Englishman turns once more to face the odds, a handful of the Royal Bengals come up at the double, and sweep upon the hapless tribesmen; not one of them escapes.

James Barclay had returned to his corps. Many of his old friends were gone, but Sherdil remained, and none was more delighted than he to welcome Ahmed Khan, after his five years' absence, as a British officer. And when, at Hoti-Mardan, some months after the fight at the Crag, it became known that Lieutenant Barclay of the Guides had been awarded the little bronze cross "For Valour," it was Sherdil, whose life he had saved, that led the troopers in their round of cheers.

Lieutenant Barclay did not forget to visit his adoptive father. Old Ahsan, bent, and very frail, knew him before he reached the gate, and his withered face beamed as he saluted him: "Salaam, hazur: truly Allah is great!"

Rahmut Khan gave him a royal welcome.

"Still art thou my son!" he cried, "and the sight of thee is very good."

He had loyally held to his compact with Jan Larrens, and the British raj had no warmer friend on the frontiers than he. Age had laid its icy finger on him; the tale of his years was well-nigh told. Only one thing troubled his peace of mind: neither Dilasah nor Minghal Khan had tasted his vengeance. Dilasah had fled from the village at the first news that the chief was returning home; and of Minghal, though he had sought diligently, he had discovered no trace.

Barclay wondered whether the two men, like Nana Sahib and Bakht Khan and other figures in the great rebellion, had disappeared for ever. But a year or so later, when he was being shown over the jail at Agra by the governor, he was taken to see two notorious ruffians who were serving a term of fifteen years' imprisonment for highway robbery with violence. And remembering that Rahmut Khan had been imprisoned in that very jail, he thought it a just retribution when he recognized, in the two fettered prisoners tramping round and round at the pole of the oil-mill, Dilasah and Minghal Khan. He sent word of his discovery to the old chief, and in due time received an answer written by the village scribe, Dinga Ghosh.

"The house of the wicked shall not prosper. I would I had slain them; but what must be, will be. Allah be with thee!"