"Steady, Mulha. I'm glad to see you. Now, up we go."
In less than a minute he was standing on the floor of a loft, lit by a couple of smoky native lamps, and on which his twenty troopers had been reclining. Now, however, they stood about him exclaiming, giving vent to their joy.
"To-morrow we were to have marched, and this night——"
"I know the tale," said Owen, interrupting the native officer. "The orders are reversed. To-night we march. To-morrow—well, we may be killed. Are the horses saddled?"
"All is in readiness according to your orders, sahib."
"And is there a door by which we can get out without leading into the main street?"
"There is, sahib. The locks are opened already."
"Then listen. My jailer is lying stunned in my cell. The Frenchman who influences Holkar, and who would have killed me to-night, is a prisoner in his own apartments, and is no doubt making frantic efforts to escape or sound the alarm. I am in his place for the moment, for I have taken his clothes. The ruse may or may not succeed. If not, and the guards at the gates refuse to pass us, draw and cut them down at once. For we must not delay. We shall have to ride yet for our lives."
"Silence!" There was a buzz of excitement as Owen rapidly sketched his tale, but the native officer quelled it on the instant. He lifted his hand, and at once all became silent.