Once inside the chateau, the fugitives, shivering with terror, fairly collapsed.  There were three Englishmen in the party besides Bowles, scrubby, sickly chaps, but men after all.  It was with unfeigned surprise that Chase recognised the Persian wives of Jacob von Blitz among the women who had been obliged to cast their lot with the refugees from Aratat.  The sister of Neenah and five or six other women who had been sold into the island made up the remainder of the little group of trembling females.  Their faces were veiled; their persons were bedecked with all of the gaudy raiment and jewels that their charms had won from their liege lords.  They were slaves, these Persians and Turks and Egyptians, but they came out of bondage with the trophies of queens stuck in their hair, in their ears, on their hands and arms and about their waists and throats.

The remainder of the men in the party, fourteen or fifteen in all, were of many castes and nationalities, and of various ages.  There were brown-skinned fellows from Calcutta, a couple of sturdy Greeks, an Egyptian and a Persian, three or four Assyrians and as many Maori.  As to their walks in life:  among them were clerks and guards from the bank, members of the native constabulary, Indian fakirs and showmen, and venders of foreign gewgaws.

Bowles, his thin legs still shaking perceptibly, although he strove mightily to hold them at strict “attention,” was the spokesman.  A valiant heart thumped once more against the seams of the little red jacket; if his hand trembled and his voice shook, it was because of the unwonted exertion to which both had been put in that stirring flight at dawn.  He had eager, anxious listeners about him, too—­and of the nobility.  Small wonder that his knees were intractable.

“For some time we have been preparing for the outbreak,” he said, fingering the glass of brandy that Britt had poured for him.  “Ever since Chase began to go in so noticeably for the ladies—­ahem!”

Chase glared at him.  The others tittered.

“I don’t mean the old story, sir, of the Persians—­and I’m saying, sir, what’s more, there wasn’t a word of truth in it—­I mean the ladies of the chateau, begging pardon, too.  Von Blitz came to me often with complaints that you were being made a fool of by a pretty face or two, and that you were going over to the enemy, body and soul.  Of course, I stood out for you, sir.  It wasn’t any use.  They’d made up their minds to get rid of you.  When I heard that they tried to kill you the night before last, I made up my mind that no white man was to be left to tell the tale.  Last night we locked all the company’s books in the vaults, got together all the banknotes and gold we had on hand, and made preparations to go on board the steamer when she called this morning.  My plan was to tell them of the trouble here and try to save you.  We were all expected to die of the plague, that’s what we were, and I realised that Tommy Atkins was off the boards forever.