"I didn't have to use it," she said. "It's all loaded and ready. And I'm going to stay here with you and Mr. Bronson, to help. What are you planning to do?"
"Please run away," I said, "and take Biddy and your aunt. You must. That's the only help we want—"
"Not till you tell me what you mean to do."
"Oh, only to try a trick to frighten those Arab sheep out there. They funk this temple at night anyhow. And I've just remembered that I brought some Bengal fire to light the place up and amuse the crowd. I thought if a red blaze suddenly burst out it would give those fellows a scare—and the police are on the way—"
"But the Arabs will see that you're only two!"
"They shan't see us at all. We'll hide behind those statues and pot at them if they do come in, which I doubt. Now, off with the three of you!" And I was getting my illumination ready.
To my surprise and relief, Monny obeyed without further argument. Dimly it passed through my mind that she had been profiting by her lessons lately. I threw one glance over my shoulder, more, I'm afraid, to see whether my dear Brigit were on her way to safety than through anxiety for Miss Gilder. The three figures had already disappeared in the darkness, and Bronson and I gave ourselves to the work of lighting up.
An ocean-roar of voices surged round the temple entrance now; but the red light flamed like the fires of hell, and I, peeping from behind a statue, revolver in hand, saw that the temple itself had not been invaded. The flare lit the foreground of the darkness outside, and the columns of the front court. I could see a moving throng of white and black clad figures, gesticulating, running to and fro, seeming to urge each other to some action, yet none coming forward. I sprinkled on more powder, and up blazed the Bengal fire again. Now somebody was taking the lead. A tall man was pushing through the crowd. Would they follow this brave one? My fingers closed round the Browning. He was between the columns at last, but the light was dying down. I threw on all I had of the powder, and stared through the red dazzle to make certain what was happening—since this might decide our fate. The tall man's back was turned to us. He seemed to be motioning the crowd away instead of urging them on. How to make sure, in the blood-coloured glare, whether a man's turban was white or green or crimson? But that gesture—that lift of the head! No mistaking that. The man was Antoun—Ahmed Antoun, the worshipful Hadji, haranguing the mob.
Hardly would they let him speak at first. Those on the outskirts tried to yell him down. I heard the word "traitor!" and before the light ebbed I thought I caught sight of Rechid's pale face under the red tarboosh, Rechid's broad shoulders in European coat, edging past jebbahs and galabeahs, toward the columns. Then, just as the light died, from behind us in the temple came a cry. Above the shouting of the Hadji, who was beginning to make himself heard by the crowd, it rang out shrill and clear—a woman's voice: Monny Gilder's. She called on the name of Antoun, and then was silent.
I lifted my candle-lantern—all that was left to illumine the darkness, and saw at the far end of the court shadowy figures struggling together. It seemed to me that there were not two, but four or five. I ran toward them, and Bronson ran, but some one bounded past us both—a tall man in a green turban. A shot was fired after him, and hit a statue. I heard subconsciously a miniature crash of chipped granite, but I don't think Anthony heard, or had heard anything since that call for "Antoun!"