and leaned forward over his knees. His movement and attitude were so natural that it was hard to realise that he had been shot through the head. He neither stirred nor groaned. His comrades bent over him for a moment, and then, shrugging their shoulders, they turned their dark faces to the Arabs once more. Belmont picked up the dead man’s Martini and his ammunition-pouch.
“Only three more rounds, Cochrane,” said he, with the little brass cylinders upon the palm of his hand. “We’ve let them shoot too soon, and too often. We should have waited for the rush.”
“You’re a famous shot, Belmont,” cried the Colonel. “I’ve heard of you as one of the cracks. Don’t you think you could pick off their leader?”
“Which is he?”
“As far as I can make out, it is that one on the white camel on their right front. I mean the fellow who is peering at us from under his two hands.”
Belmont thrust in his cartridge and altered the sights. “It’s a shocking bad light for judging distance,” said he. “This is where the low
