“How long have you been here?” asked Cunningham.

“Several days—­ten, I think.  It seemed strange at first and rather awful to be lodged on a rock like this in a section of a Rangar’s harem!  Yes, there are several women here behind the scenes, but I only see the waiting-women.  I’ve forgotten time; the news about rebellion seems too awful to leave room for any other thought.”

“Who was the Rangar to whom Aliva gave his word?  Not Mahommed Gunga, by any chance?”

“Yes, Mahommed Gunga.”

“Well, I’m—!” Cunningham clipped off the participle just in time.  “There is something, then, in the talk about rebellion!  That man’s been talking in riddles to me ever since I came to India, and it looks as though he knew long in advance.”

He was about to cross-examine Miss McClean rigorously, even at the risk of seeming either rude or else frightened; but before his lips could frame another question he caught sight of Mahommed Gunga making signals to him.  He affected to ignore the signals.  He objected to being kept in the dark so utterly, and wished to find out a little for himself before listening to what the Rangars had to say.  But Mahommed Gunga started over to him.

He could not hear the remark Mahommed Gunga made to Alwa over his shoulder as he came.

“Had I remembered there was a woman of his own race here, I would have plunged him straight into the fighting!  Now there will be the devil first to pay!”

“He has decision in at least one thing!” grinned Alwa.

“Something that I think thou lackest, cousin!” came the hot retort.

Alwa turned his back with a shake of his head and a thin-lipped smile —­then disappeared through a green door in the side of what seemed like solid rock.  A moment later Mahommed Gunga stood near Cunningham, saluting.

“We ask the favor of a consultation, sahib.”

Cunningham rose, a shade regretfully, and followed into the rock-walled cavern into which Alwa had preceded them.  It was nearly square—­a hollow bubble in the age-old lava—­axe-trimmed many hundred years ago.  What light there was came in through three long slits that gave an archer’s view of the plain and of the zigzag roadway from the iron gate below.  It was cool, for the rock roof was fifty or more feet thick, and the silence of it seemed like the nestling-place of peace.

They sat down on wooden benches round the walls, with their soldier legs stretched out in front of them.  Alwa broke silence first, and it was of anything but peace he spoke.

“Now—­now, let us see whose throats we are to slit!” he started cheerfully.

CHAPTER XXIV

Achilles had a tender spot
That even guarding gods forgot,
When clothing him in armor;
And I have proved this charge o’ mine
For fear, and sloth, and vice, and wine,
But clear forgot the charmer!