Evidently that was not the usual command, or otherwise the gates would have swung open on the instant.  Instead, one gate moved inward by a fraction of a foot, and a pureed head peered cautiously between the gap.  That, though, was sufficient.  With a laugh, the man up closest drove his sword-hilt straight between the Hindoo’s eyes, driving his horse’s shoulder up against the gate; three others spurred and shoved beside him.  Not thirty seconds later Alwa and his nine were striking hoof sparks on the stone of Jaimihr’s courtyard, and the gates—­that could have easily withstood a hundred-man assault with battering-rams —­had clanged behind them, bolted tight against their owner.

“Where is the bear cage?” demanded Alwa.  “It is a bear I need, not blood!”

The dozen left inside to guard the palace had recovered quickly enough from their panic.  They were lining up in the middle of the courtyard, ready to defend their honor, even if the palace should be lost.  It was barely probable that Jaimihr’s temper would permit them the privilege of dying quickly should he come and find his palace looted; a Rangar’s sword seemed better, and they made ready to die hard.

“Where’s Ali Partab?”

There was no answer.  The little crowd drew in, and one by one took up the fighting attitude that each man liked the best.

“I say I did not come for blood!  I came for Ali Partab!  If I get him, unharmed, I ride away again; but otherwise—­”

“What otherwise?” asked the captain of the guard.

“This palace burns!”

There was a momentary consultation—­no argument, but a quickly reached agreement.

“He is here, unharmed,” declared the captain gruffly.

“Bring him out!”

“What proof have we that he is all you came for?”

“My given word.”

“But the Jaimihr-sahib—­”

“You also have my given word that unless I get Ali Partab this palace burns, with all that there is in it!”

Distrustful still, the captain of the guard called out to a sweeper, skulking in the shadow by the stables to go and loose Ali Partab.

“Send no sweepers to him!” ordered Alwa.  “He has suffered indignity enough.  Go thou!”

The captain of the guard obeyed.  Two minutes later Ali Partab stood before Alwa and saluted.

“Sahib, my master’s thanks!”

“They are accepted,” answered Alwa, with almost regal dignity.  “Bring a lamp!” he ordered.

One of the guard brought a hand-lantern, and by its light Alwa examined Ali Partab closely.  He was filthy, and his clothing reeked of the disgusting confinement he had endured.

“Give this man clothing fit for a man of mine!” commanded Alwa.

“Sahib, there is none; perhaps the Jaimihr-sahib—­”

“I have ordered!”

There was a movement among Alwa’s men—­a concerted, horse-length-forward movement, made terrifying by the darkness—­each man knew well enough that the men they were bullying could fight; success, should they have to force it at the sword-point, would depend largely on which side took the other by surprise.