The Keepers of the People

942At last the invaders had beaten them back, ever struggling stubbornly, to the little wooden capital; and the remnant had gathered to a man to fight the last fight before its walls. The enemy, in their turn, had called in all their straggling bands to strike the last blow with their full force.

943On the day before the battle, in the last council, a ruinous quarrel broke out between the chiefs of the two factions, who had hitherto forgotten their mutual hatred to face the common danger, a quarrel as to which of them should hold the supreme command. In the middle of it the stranger left the hall. Two hours had been wasted in a war of words that should have been spent on planning the fight, and the steel was loosening in the sheath, when there came a great shouting from the crowd outside, the doors were thrown open, and the stranger strode up the hall, in the flame-coloured mantle that had hung from the shoulders of the image of Indra.

944He stopped in the middle, and shouted in a Varandal that rang with a foreign ring, above the din of the crowd of chiefs yelling at the sacrilege, “I am the son of Indra; and I wear the mantle of Indra.”

945The tumult stilled at the speaking of the dumb man; and he told them how the God had sent him to save them from their foes; and men’s hearts grew big within them at the sight of a saviour. At the end he turned to the rival chiefs and said, “I spare you to fight for your country; you have ruined it; when the war ends, you die. I am the Prince of Varandaleel.”

946With that, impassive to their acclamations, he took his seat on the throne of the Princes of Varandaleel, and from it called each chief before him, and in the fewest words assigned to him his post in the battle. As one by one they met his heart-reading eyes, any doubt of his mission faded from their minds. On the next day the Varandals met the attack of the foe with so ardent a courage, in their assurance of victory, that for seven long hours he repulsed it with two-thirds of his army. Then when the invaders, flagging and weary, were drawing off to renew the battle on the morrow, he rode down from the little hill whence he had guided the fight, charged in the flame-coloured mantle at the head of his cavalry, the flower of his troops and fresh, and swept them in disastrous rout from the field. He allowed no rest from the pursuit and slaughter, seized the passes behind them with swift horsemen, and captured, or destroyed them at leisure.