“If he is their man,” said Alwa presently, “he will turn now.  He will change direction and ride for the main body of them yonder.  He can see them now easily.  Yes.  See.  He is their man!”

On a horse that staggered gamely—­silhouetted and beginning to show detail in the yellow light—­a man whose nationality or caste could not be recognized rode straight for the bivouacking cavalry, and a swarm of them rode out at a walk to meet him.

The tension on the ramparts was relaxed then.  As a friend in direst need the man would have been welcome.  As one of enemy, with a message for them, however urgent, he was no more than an incident.

“By Allah!” roared Alwa suddenly.  “That is no man of theirs!  Quick!  To the wheels!  Man the wheels!  Eight men to horse!”

He took the cord himself, to send the necessary signal down into the belly of the rock.  From his stables, where men and horses seemed to stand ready day and night, ten troopers cantered out, scattering the sparks, the whites of their horses’ eyes and their drawn blades gleaming; without another order they dipped down the breakneck gorge, to wait below.  The oncoming rider had wheeled again; he had caught the cavalry, that rode to meet him, unawares.  They were not yet certain whether he was friend or foe, and they were milling in a bunch, shouting orders to one another.  He, spurring like a maniac, was heading straight for the searching party, who had formed to cut him off.  He seemed to have thrown his heart over Alwa’s iron gate and to be thundering on hell’s own horse in quest of it again.

Alwa’s eight slipped down the defile as quickly as phantoms would have dared in that tricky moon-light.  One of them shouted from below.  Alwa jerked the cord, and the great gate yawned, well-oiled and silent.  The oncomer raced straight for the middle of the intercepting line of horsemen; they—­knowing him by this time for no friend—­started to meet him; and Alwa’s eight, unannounced and unexpected, whirled into them from the rear.

In a second there was shouting, blind confusion—­eddying and trying to reform.  The lone galloper pulled clear, and Alwa’s men drove his opponents, crupper over headstall, into a body of the main contingent who had raced up in pursuit.  They rammed the charge home, and reeled through both detachments—­then wheeled at the spur and cut their way back again, catching up their man at the moment that his horse dropped dead beneath him.  They seized him beneath the arms and bore him through as the great gate dropped and cut his horse in halves.  Then one man took the galloper up behind his saddle, and bore him up the hill unquestioned until he could dismount in front of Alwa.

“Who art thou?” demanded the owner of the rock, recognizing a warrior by his trademarks, but in no way moderating the natural gruffness of his voice.  Alwa considered that his inviolable hospitality should be too well known and understood to call for any explanation or expression; he would have considered it an insult to the Sikh’s intelligence to have mouthed a welcome; he let it go for granted.