THE GIFT. 
425 
past the roped-in enclosure, level with it, to 
the right. In the distance the troops, too, 
had wheeled. Guns and cavalry trotted ; 
infantry moved smartly, assuming place for 
the march past. A band took up position on 
the opposite side of the enclosure, half-way 
between the Staff and the troops, six hundred 
yards off. There was a pause — a pause of 
several minutes. Then, in the distance, a 
trumpet-call rang out. The commandant, 
leaning forward, touched his guest upon the 
arm. 
“ Here they come, Lady Mildred ! Here 
they come ! ” 
Lady Mildred had the glasses to her eyes ; 
she was standing very upright. As yet she 
could see little save a mass made up of horses, 
blue shell- jackets, yellow braidings, busbies, 
ochre-corded and red-flapped. But though 
she saw little, she was herself much seen. At 
her, eager-eyed, with lips that worked and 
quivered, the small woman in the mantle and 
bonnet w r as looking from below where the 
rope restrained. And the noise grew greater. 
Hoofs thundered on the plain. 
“ A good sight, Lady Mildred,” said the 
commandant. “ Always worth coming to 
see ! ” His guest nodded. Her hands tight- 
ened nervously on the glasses, bringing them 
closer to her eyes. 
The rout and roar grew greater ; the hoofs 
pounded harder ; the noises fought with each 
other — yet allied to drown the band. Horses 
neighed excitedly ; the guns rumbled forward ; 
the sun glinted on the dark and polished steel 
of them — a great cloud of dust rising heaven- 
wards like a pillar, then rolling in their wake. 
They came on, on ; the faces of the drivers 
eager, their whips cracking, their faces 
blackening with perspiration and quickly- 
caking dust. On the right of them rode 
Sir John Dixon with his aides-de-camp. 
Lady Mildred lowered her glasses ; her 
eyes were on him, and the eyes of the 
little woman by the rope of the enclosure 
still devoured her face. A hundred yards, 
seventy-five, fifty, thirty— they pounded 
forward, magnificent in the pride of man- 
hood, stirring the blood to see. Lady 
Mildred’s heart was beating wildly ; it waked, 
this charge, the primitive woman in her ; it 
was life, it laid bare, it revealed. 
Twenty yards — fifteen yards — level with 
the enclosure, they swept forward ; and then 
— slap — snap-snap, clang and jingle ; broken 
harness on a saddle ; a smashed stirrup- 
leather ; a wrench, a tumble, a thud. A 
shriek from a woman in the enclosure — a 
sharp-flung oath — cries shrill and hoarse and 
loud. From the commandant behind Lady 
Mildred a gasp that was almost a shout. 
“ There’s a man down — they’re over him — 
he’s done for. No, by Jove, they’re dear ! 
But the lancers — by God, the lancers ! 
They’ll ride over him. Here they come ! ” 
The commandant was right. The lancers 
were pounding at full gallop, cloaked in the 
cloud of dust that swept in the wake of the 
gunners, that came rolling forward, thick, 
dense, implacable, like the smoke of a forest 
fire. 
But the commandant, who had been right, 
was also wrong. He who rode by the side 
of the batteries had checked his horse and 
wheeled. His two aides-de-camp imitated 
him ; all three were beside the fallen man. 
Sir John Dixon shouted something. An 
aide-de-camp leaped to the ground, stood 
covering the fallen man. Sir John Dixon 
spurred forward, shouting, with his other 
aide-de-camp , into the pillar of dust. 
It’s too late — too late ! ” The com- 
mandant’s gasp had become a whisper, then 
went from whisper to roar. “ Heavens, they’ll 
ride him down ! Defile ! Defile ! Defile ! ” 
“ Defile ! ” Others about and around the 
wagon took up the word of command. Lady 
Mildred tried to utter it. She could not. 
She was white arid fought for breath. At her 
the little woman — a very ghost for paleness — 
was looking, now, no more. But neither she 
nor Lady Mildred, nor any man or woman, 
might see those four men’s fate. The dust- 
pillar had rolled forward, high and all- 
enwrapping, and the ground shook and 
harness clanked closer and hoofs came 
pounding -and those in the enclosure held 
their breath. Then, suddenly, a woman 
shrieked. 
“ The lancers — they’re riding into us ! The 
lancers —they’ll trample us down [ ” 
For out of the dust came men, riding ; and 
it seemed that they galloped upon those in 
the enclosure as upon hostile infantry, with 
the lust and fury of blood. Then, pennants 
fluttering from the lances of them and the 
sun bright upon the breasts of dark blue 
tunics, they swung inwards, as they had been 
swinging outwards, and went, full galloping, 
past enclosure and past Staff. The dust rose 
after them, hung heavy, rolled forward, lifted, 
leaving four men in view. Sir John Dixon 
was supporting the driver, who staggered, 
half standing, half falling. The aides-de- 
camp held three chargers by the reins. In 
the distance came the skirl of bagpipes ; the 
glint and sparkle of sunlight upon steel and 
tartan and flesh. Then the bagpipes wailed 
