Frank and his companions knew nothing of this as they were hurried along through the tortuous ways of the vast stretch of hovels, tents, and mud huts, till they reached the outskirts, and then the wide-stretching plain, where they had ample opportunity of learning the truth. For on every side, streaming towards Khartoum, where it lay whitened in the distance, were the routed dervishes, some in troops, displaying military order, but the greater part scattered and flying for their lives on horses, camels, and on foot.

They had need—for the Emir's officer had stayed too long in his blind belief in the success of the Khalifa's troops—the avenging forces were close behind, and the dervishes were falling fast, dotting the plain with their white garments, while riderless horses and camels careered wildly here and there.

The race was for Khartoum—the efforts of the Sirdar's troops, horse, foot, and artillery, to cut them off, and it was not long before the English party grasped the fact that it would be a marvel if they reached the distant city alive in the midst of the hurrying crowd.

But the Emir's bodyguard worked well, keeping their charge together, hurrying on the camels, encouraging the women, and twice over forming up and attacking bands of their fellow fighting men who approached menacingly, seeing in the flying party of the Emir's household ample opportunities for securing plunder, but only to be beaten off.

Any attempt at escape would only have been to invite recapture. Frank and his brother, well mounted as they were, like the guard, on a couple of the Emir's magnificent Arabs, could have galloped off with ease, but the slower going camels on which their friends rode could not have kept up with them, and even if an attempt had been made where were they to go? It was to run the gauntlet amongst the relics of the flying army, to risk being cut down by their friends before they had time to explain that they were not what they seemed.

Harry seemed to have forgotten his injured arm, and he and Frank rode together, helping the officer of the guard, though it was only in keeping their own party together, and encouraging the followers of the Sheikh, who were losing their calmness in the wild rout, with the guns of the horse artillery sending forth grape wherever a knot of the enemy hung together, and the cavalry, white and black, charging here and there.

It was while Frank was cheering on Sam, and then helping a dismounted man to a seat on a baggage camel, that the officer rode up, meeting Harry, who turned to him at once, to address him in the keen, commanding tones of the British officer, as he pointed towards the open plains and hills.

"You can never get to Khartoum," he said. "Make for the desert."

"Yes," said the officer calmly, as he fully grasped the position; for rapidly passing their left flank, and gradually cutting off their way, they saw a regiment of the Egyptian cavalry tearing along, riding down scores of the dervishes as they went.

It seemed to be their only chance, and the two young men joined with their leader in heart and soul to hurry the camel train along.

Turning then at right-angles, the leading man made for the shelter of some hills a couple of miles to the west, and as the camels were hurried along, there seemed for a few minutes a prospect of getting right away.

"From Scylla into Charybdis," cried Harry bitterly.

"But can we do better?" said Frank excitedly.

"There is no better," said Harry sadly, "in a rout. It is every man for himself now. No one has a friend."

They rode on as fast as they could get the groaning and complaining camels along, and were rapidly nearing the hills, when a warning cry came from their leader, in answer to which the guard turned back, leaving the camels to proceed alone, for the Emir's officer had suddenly become aware of the fact that a band of at least a hundred of the mounted dervishes in full retreat had swooped round, and were dashing at them, certainly with no peaceful intent.

"It's all over, Frank, lad," cried Harry. "Let's get alongside Morris and Landon. They may make us prisoners, but the wretches' blood is up, and their only thoughts are to plunder and slay. Try and save them; here the wretches come."

"Look, look!" cried Frank, for from their right front some four hundred yards away there was a gleam of steel, a glimpse of white helmets, and an opening outline of galloping horses racing out of a hollow.

The evolution was brilliant, and before it seemed possible, the line of horsemen with lowered spears were upon the advancing dervish band, which had already got amongst the Emir's guard, fighting and dying in defence of their charge.

A minute? More likely half a minute, and a couple of squadrons of British cavalry had ridden through the dervishes, leaving the earth cumbered with dead and wounded men, whose horses galloped wildly here and there.

On went the cavalry, wheeled, and came back, cutting down all who resisted, the major portion of the enemy flying for their lives to east and north, for from the west a second squadron of the British horse was coming up at a gallop, a detachment checking and capturing the whole camel train.

How it came about Frank hardly knew, but somehow, mounted as he was, he found himself with his brother close to where the Emir's officer, with a dozen of his men, had hacked their way from among a crowd of dervishes, just as the British cavalry had wheeled and come back, cutting up the assailants of the Emir's guards, and the next minute had nearly been Frank's last, for an English lancer rode in the melee at the Emir's officer, who must have fallen had not a quick blow from Frank's sword turned the lance aside.

The man passed on, but an officer dashed in, sword in hand, and Frank would have been laid low but for his brother's act.

For Harry turned his horse and rode full at the advancing officer, their chargers coming together as he shouted wildly—

"Halt! Halt! English—English!"

The officer turned upon him fiercely.

"What?—Who are you?"

"Frere, of Gordon's," shouted Harry.

"But that black?"

"My brother!"

"Yes," cried Frank, in honest old English. "I was trying to save this brave man's life."

"Then don't black your face first, youngster, next time," cried the officer, with a laugh, as he turned to find fresh food for his steel.

But the enemy were flying fast, scattered, and leaving half their force upon the field. The recall was ringing out, and shortly after the English squadrons were making for Khartoum, with their prisoners and prizes, the former including the remains of the Emir's bodyguard, their captain and six of his followers, wounded to a man.

That night Frank and his companions rested in Khartoum.

It was the day of the oft-told scene when the Sirdar and his staff were gathered around with all the thrilling pomp of a military funeral, to pay the long-deferred honour at their hero's grave.

The chaplain had read the solemn words, the volleys had been fired, to waken the echoes from where they had slumbered among the ruins of Khartoum, and the victorious general and his brave staff had paid their last duties of respect.

As the combined flags floated and waved together with a soft rustle in the desert wind, the general and his officers drew back from the hero's grave and then stood fast, as a thin, worn-looking, sun-burned man in tattered white cotton garments, and bearing his left arm in a sling, stepped forward—a dervish slave in dress, but with the bearing of a British officer, and closely followed by a black.

For the moment it seemed like an intrusion, and there was a movement amongst the Sirdar's guard as if to force them back. But an officer raised his hand, and then whispered to another at his side—

"Gordon's friend; a prisoner with him at his death."

"Yes, but the black fellow?" said the other, in the same low tone.

"Pst! Tell you after—brother—came in disguise—to seek him out."

Then all stood watching in the midst of a painful silence as they saw the rescued victim of the Mahdi's reign of terror sink softly upon his knees by his leader's grave and lay upon it a leaf freshly taken from a neighbouring palm, while his companion stood reverently close behind.

A minute had elapsed, and then those present drew back, and a hand was laid upon the kneeling man's shoulder.

The latter rose slowly, and he who had silently warned him that it was time to go heard him murmur—

"Goodbye, brave soldier and truest friend. I did my best. But it is not Goodbye: for you will be always with us—one of Britain's greatest sons—your name will never die."

Then turning to his companion with a faint, sad smile, he said softly—

"Our country was slow to move, but at last it has done its duty well. Mine was a bitter time of waiting, but it is as nothing now, for I have been here to see."

He turned and looked up quickly, for there was a sharp fluttering sound as of wings.

"The British flag!" he said, with a look of pride lighting up his deeply bronzed face. "There, Frank, lad, our work is done, and the way is open. Now for rest—for the home I never hoped to see again."

A low murmur of admiration ran along the ranks of the British soldiers, officers and men, as the brothers walked slowly back to where a group was standing, one of whom was a good-looking, sun-browned Hakim in snowy turban and flowing robes, attended by a swarthy man in a fez—a man in white garb with a very English face, and just behind him a venerable Sheikh. For all who were present now had learned the facts, and as the brothers passed, one of the officers of the Sirdar's guard exclaimed—

"By George! and yet there are people who say we have no heroes now!"

THE END.