"The garden!"
"No," said Renwick, looking about for a place of concealment. "I shall stay."
"It is death——" whispered Marishka.
But Yeva was resourceful. "The armor!" she whispered. "I have often hidden in it from Zubeydeh. Quickly, Excellency! It stands upon brackets in the wall."
And while Marishka watched the stairhead in terror, Yeva helped the Englishman into this strange place of concealment. Excited as Yeva was at her share in the affair, her fingers were nimble, and she buckled the straps quickly, then turning fled into the selamlik and unlocked the door. But Goritz by this time had managed to find a way to the stairs to the mabein, and came up stealthily, listening eagerly to the increasing commotion in the Harim. He found Marishka and Yeva hand in hand at the door to the selamlik staring in consternation at the door of the black grille. There were no more shots, but more ominous even than shots were the sounds of voices, strained, subdued, tense with effort—the heavy breathing of men, the crashing of furniture, and then at last the jar of heavy bodies falling—a cry of triumph—and silence.
Captain Goritz had folded his arms and waited expectant.
"It is very strange," he said coolly to Yeva. "Someone has broken into the Harim?"
"Excellency, I do not know. I was at the other end of the house. The Fräulein was frightened and called to me," she lied glibly.
"It is not to be wondered at——" he said with a strange smile. "They have made enough noise to raise the dead. I have a pardonable curiosity as to what has happened." But as he strode toward the door and laid a hand upon the knob, Yeva rushed forward.
"Excellency!" she whispered. "You dare not! The law!"