Lying on the turf, close to the fort wall, were four bodies arranged in
a row and covered with cloths.
The soldiers gathered round them as I approached. The cloths were
raised.
My eyes rested on the pale features of my ever faithful and devoted
officer, Monsoor! There was a sad expression of pain on his face. I
could not help feeling his pulse; but there was no hope; this was still.
I laid his arm gently by his side, and pressed his hand for the last
time, for I loved Monsoor as a true friend.
His body was pierced with thirty-two lance wounds; thus he had fought
gallantly to the last, and he had died like a good soldier; but he was
treacherously murdered instead of dying on a fair battle-field.
Poor Ferritch Baggara was lying next to him, with two lance wounds
through the chest.
The other bodies were those of the choush that had fallen by my side,
and the soldier who had been shot on the parapet.
We were all deeply distressed at the death of poor Monsoor. There never
was a more thoroughly unselfish and excellent man. He was always kind to
the boys, and would share even a scanty meal in hard times with either
friend or stranger. He was the lamb in peace, and the lion in moments of
danger. I owed him a debt of gratitude, for although I was the general,
and he had been only a corporal when he first joined the expedition, he
had watched over my safety like a brother.
