A great pile of boulders was heaped up at the very end of the pass, and among these our fugitives were skulking, entirely demoralised apparently, and incapable of resistance.

They were useless as prisoners, and it was out of the question to let them go, so there was no choice but to polish them off.
Waving my sword, I was leading my men on, when we had a most dramatic interruption of a sort which I have seen once or twice on the boards of Drury Lane, but never in real life.
In the side of the cliff, close to the pile of stones where the Hillmen were making their last stand, there was a cave which looked more like the lair of some wild beast than a human habitation.
Out of this dark archway there suddenly emerged an old man--such a very, very old man that all the other veterans whom I have seen were as chickens compared with him.

His hair and beard were both as white as snow, and each reached more than half-way to his waist.

His face was wrinkled and brown and ebony, a cross between a monkey and a mummy, and so thin and emaciated were his shrivelled limbs that you would hardly have given him credit for having any vitality left, were it not for his eyes, which glittered and sparkled with excitement, like two diamonds in a setting of mahogany.
This apparition came rushing out of the cave, and, throwing himself between the fugitives and our fellows, motioned us back with as imperious a sweep of the hand as ever an emperor used to his slaves.
"Men of blood," he cried, in a voice of thunder, speaking excellent English, too--"this is a place for prayer and meditation, not for murder.

Desist, lest the wrath of the gods fall upon you." "Stand aside, old man," I shouted.