Barlow's senses were going; his brain swam; in his fancy he had been
shot from a cliff and was hurtling through space in which there was no
air--his lungs had closed; in his brain a hammer was beating him into
unconsciousness.
Then suddenly the pressure on his throat ceased, it fell away; the air
rushed to the parched lungs. With a wrench his brain cleared, and he
went down; but now with power in his arms, the arms that still clung
about the dazed Hunsa, and he was on top.
Scarce aware of the action, out of a fighting instinct, he dragged from
its holster his heavy pistol, and beat with its butt the ugly head
beneath, beat it till it was still. Then he staggered to his feet and
looked wonderingly at the form of the Bagree behind who lay sprawled on
the road, a great red splash across the white jacket on his breast.
In the Gulab's hand was still clutched the dagger she had drawn from
her girdle and driven home to save the sahib who had sat like a god in
her heart. With the other hand she held out from contact with her
limbs the muslin _sari_ that was crimsoned where the blood of the
Bagree had fountained when she drew forth her knife.
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