“Go seek him, then!”

The priest turned and scampered up the ladder with an agility that was astonishing in a man of his build and paunch.

“Hanuman should have been thy master!” jeered the Risaldar.  “So run the bandar-log, the monkey-folk!”

But the priest had no time to answer him.  He was half frantic with the sickening fear of a father for his only son.  He returned ten minutes later, panting, and more scared than ever.

“Go, take thy white woman,” he exclaimed, “and give me my son back!”

“Nay, priest!  Shall I ride with her alone through that horde that are marching through the gate?  I go now for an escort; in eight—­ ten—­twelve—­I know not how many hours, I will return for her, and then—­thy son will be exchanged for her, or he dies thus in many pieces!”

He turned to Suliman.  “Is she awake yet?” he demanded.

“Barely, but she recovers.”

“Then tell her, when consciousness returns, that I have gone and will return for her.  And stay here, thou, and guard her until I come.”

“Ha, sahib!”

“Now, show the way!”

“But—­” said the priest, “our bargain?  The price that we agreed on—­ one lakh, was it not?”

“One lakh of devils take thee and tear thee into little pieces!  Wouldst bribe a Rajput, a Risaldar?  For that insult I will repay thee one day with interest, O priest!  Now, show the way!”

“But how shall I be sure about my son?”

“Be sure that the priestling will starve to death or die of thirst or choke, unless I hurry!  He is none too easy where he lies!”

“Go!  Hurry, then!” swore the priest.  “May all the gods there are, and thy Allah with them, afflict thee with all their curses—­thee and thine!  Up with you!  Up that ladder!  Run!  But, if the gods will, I will meet thee again when the storm is over!”

“Inshallah!” growled Mahommed Khan.

Ten minutes later a crash and a clatter and a shower of sparks broke out in the sweltering courtyard where the guns had stood and waited.  It was Shaitan, young Bellairs’ Khaubuli charger, with his haunches under him, plunging across the flagstones, through the black-dark archway, out on the plain beyond—­in answer to the long, sharp-roweled spurs of the Risaldar Mahommed Khan.

X.

Dawn broke and the roofs of old Hanadra became resplendent with the varied colors of turbans and pugrees and shawls.  As though the rising sun had loosed the spell, a myriad tongues, of women chiefly, rose in a babel of clamor, and the few men who had been left in.  Hanadra by the night’s armed exodus came all together and growled prophetically in undertones.  Now was the day of days, when that part of India, at least, should cast off the English yoke.