Another messenger ran in and shouted:  “They have charged!  Their cavalry have charged!  They are beaten back!  Their dead lie twisted on the plain!”

At the words there was a stampede from the doorway, and half of those who had remained rushed out.  There were hundreds still there, though, for that great gloomy pile of Kharvani’s could hold an almost countless crowd.

Within another hour the same man rushed to the door again and shouted: 

“Help comes!  Horsemen are coming from the north!  Rajputs, riding like leaves before the wind!  Even the Mussulmans are for us!”

But the chanting never ceased.  No one stopped to doubt the friendship of arrivals from the north, for to that side there were no English, and England’s friends would surely follow byroads to her aid.  The city gates were wide open to admit wounded or messengers or friends—­ with a view, even, to a possible retreat—­and whoever cared could ride through them unchallenged and unchecked.

Even when the crash of horses’ hoofs rattled on the stone paving outside the temple there was no suspicion.  No move was made to find out who it was who rode.  But when the temple door reechoed to the thunder of a sword-hilt and a voice roared “Open!” there was something like a panic.  The chanting stopped and the priests and the High Priest listened to the stamping on the stone pavement at the temple front.

“Open!” roared a voice again, and the thundering on the panels recommenced.  Then some one drew the bolt and a horse’s head—­a huge Khaubuli stallion’s—­appeared, snorting and panting and wild-eyed.

“Farward!” roared the Risaldar Mahommed Khan, kneeling on young Bellairs’ winded charger.

“Farm twos!  Farward!”

Straight into the temple, two by two, behind the Risaldar, rode two fierce lines of Rajputs, overturning men and women—­their drawn swords pointing this way and that—­their dark eyes gleaming.  Without a word to any one they rode up to the image, where the priests stood in an astonished herd.

“Fron-tt farm!  Rear rank—­’bout-face!” barked the Risaldar, and there was another clattering and stamping on the stone floor as the panting chargers pranced into the fresh formation, back to back.

“The memsahib!” growled Mahommed Khan.  “Where is she?”

“My son!” said the High Priest.  “Bring me my son!”

“A life for a life!  Thy heavenborn first!”

“Nay!  Show me my son first!”

The Risaldar leaped from his horse and tossed his reins to the man behind him.  In a second his sword was at the High Priest’s throat.

“Where is that secret stair?” he growled.  “Lead on!”

The swordpoint pricked him.  Two priests tried to interfere, but wilted and collapsed with fright as four fierce, black-bearded Rajputs spurred their horses forward.  The swordpoint pricked still deeper.

“My son!” said the High Priest.