“Stop, excellencies!” he shouted again and again.  Bobby Browne and Deppingham were covering the retreat, prepared to fight to the end for their women, although unarmed.  It was the American who first realised that Baillo was not heading an attack upon them.  He managed to convey this intelligence to the others and in a moment they were listening in wonder to the explanations of the major-domo.

Surprising as it may appear, the majority of the servants were faithful to their trust, Baillo and a score of his men had refused to join the stable men and gardeners in the plot to assassinate the white people.  As a last resort, the conspirators contrived to steal into the chateau, hoping to fall upon their victims before Baillo could interpose.  The major-domo, however, with the wily sagacity of his race, anticipated the move.  The two forces met in the south hall, after the plotters had effected an entrance from the garden; the struggle was brief, for the conspirators were outnumbered and surprised.  They were even now lying below, bound and helpless, awaiting the disposition of their intended victims.

“It is not because we love you, excellencies,” explained Baillo, with a sudden fierce look in his eyes, “but because Allah has willed that we should serve you faithfully.  We are your dogs.  Therefore we fight for you.  It is a vile dog which bites its master.”

Browne, with the readiness of the average American, again assumed command of the situation.  He gave instructions that the prisoners, seven in number, be confined in the dungeon, temporarily, at least.  Bobby did not make the mistake of pouring gratitude upon the faithful servitors; it would have been as unwise as it was unwelcome.  He simply issued commands; he was obeyed with the readiness that marks the soldier who dies for the cause he hates, but will not abandon.

“There will be no other attack on us to-night,” said Browne, rejoining the women after his interview with Baillo.  “It has missed fire for the present, but they will try to get at us sooner or later from the outside.  Britt, will you and Mr. Saunders put those prisoners through the ‘sweat’ box?  You may be able to bluff something out of them, if you threaten them with death.  They—­”

“It won’t do, Browne,” said Deppingham, shaking his head.  “They are fatalists, they are stoics.  I know the breed better than you.  Question if you like, but threats will be of no avail.  Keep ’em locked up, that’s all.”

Firearms and ammunition were taken from the gunroom to the quarters occupied by the white people.  Every preparation was made for a defence in the event of an attack from the outside or inside.  Strict orders were given to every one.  From this night on, the occupants of the chateau were to consider themselves in a state of siege, even though the enemy made no open display against them.  Every precaution against surprise was taken.  The white servants were moved into rooms adjoining their employers; Britt and Saunders transferred their belongings to certain gorgeous apartments; Miss Pelham went into a Marie Antoinette suite close by that of the Princess.  The native servants retained their customary quarters, below stairs.  It was a peculiar condition that all of the native servants were men; no women were employed in the great establishment, nor ever had been.