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 In an instant Bimala and Jagat Singha reached the door, when four Pathan soldiers swiftly ran up.

"’Tis too late, Bimala," said Jagat Singha. "Fall back behind me."

Seeing their prey before them, the men set up their war-cry of Allalla ho, and leapt forward like devils. The arms around their loins rang as they descended. Their cry had scarcely died away when the sword of Jagat Singha was planted deep in the breast of one of them. The man expired, crying frightfully. Before the Prince could extricate his weapon, the spear-point of another Pathan ran towards his neck; but before it could alight, swift as lightning, with his left hand he arrested its course, and with one thrust of that same spear, prostrated his adversary. In a moment, the two remaining Pathans simultaneously aimed their blows at Jagat Singha’s head; but without pausing to take breath, he lopped off the fore-arm of one, but could not parry the blow of the other,—which without alighting on his head, inflicted a severe blow on his shoulder. On receiving the wound, the Prince grew doubly frantic, like a tiger smitten by the hunter's arrow; and scarcely had the Pathan attempted to strike again, when with both hands grasping his bloody weapon with his whole strength and spirit, the Prince leapt forward and by one blow severed the head of his enemy with the turban on. Meanwhile the man who had lost his arm, drew out a sharp dagger from his waist by the left hand, and aimed at the Prince's body. As the latter was descending from his leap, the poniard went deep into his spacious arm. Considering the wound as nothing more than the pricking of a needle, he administered such a tremendous kick to the man's waist as fairly flung him at a distance. The