“It is done, sahib,” said the leader of the guard, and one man hurried off to execute the order.  Ten minutes later—­they were ten impatient minutes, during which the horses sensed the fever of anxiety and could be hardly made to stand—­Ali Partab stood arrayed in clean, new khaki that fitted him reasonably well.

“A sword, now!” demanded Alwa.  “Thy sword!  This man had a sword when he was taken!  Give him thine, unless there is a better to be had.”

There was nothing for it but obedience, for few things were more certain than that Alwa was not there to waste time asking for anything he would not fight for if refused.  The guard held out his long sword, hilt first, and Ali Partab strapped it on.

“I had three horses when they took me,” he asserted, “three good ones, sound and swift, belonging to my master.”

“Then take three of Jaimihr’s!”

It took ten minutes more for Ali Partab and two of Alwa’s men to search the stables and bring out the three best chargers of the twenty and more reserved for Jaimihr’s private use.  They were wonders of horses, half-Arab and half-native-bred, clean-limbed and firm—­worth more, each one of them, than all three of Mahommed Gunga’s put together.

“Are they good enough?” demanded Alwa.

“My master will be satisfied,” grinned Ali Partab.

“Open the gate, then!” Alwa was peering through the blackness for a sight of firearms, but could see none.  He guessed—­and he was right —­that the guard had taken full advantage of their master’s absence, and had been gambling in a corner while their rifles rested under cover somewhere else.  For a second he hesitated, dallying with the notion of disarming the guard before he left, then decided that a fight was scarcely worth the risking now, and with ten good men behind him he wheeled and scooted through the wide-flung gates into outer gloom.

He galloped none too fast, for his party was barely out of range before a ragged volley ripped from the palace-wall; one of his men, hampered and delayed by a led horse that was trying to break away from him, was actually hit, and begged Alwa to ride back and burn the palace after all.  He was grumbling still about the honor of a Rangar, when Alwa called a halt in the shelter of a deserted side street in order to question Ali Partab further.

Ali Partab protested that he did not know what to say or think about the missionaries.  He explained his orders and vowed that his honor held him there in Howrah until Miss McClean should consent to come away.  He did not mention the father; he was a mere side issue—­it was Alwa who asked after him.

“A tick on the belly of an ox rides with the ox,” said Ali Partab.

“Lead on, then, to the mission house,” commanded Alwa, and the ten-man troop proceeded to obey.  They had reached the main street again, and were wheeling into it, when Joanna sprang from gutter darkness and intercepted them.  She was all but ridden down before Ali Partab recognized her.