When the secretaries rose Dave called a petty officer, to take them to the gate and to vouch for their right to pass out.
In the meantime the wounded were being attended. Nearly all of the unhurt defenders still remained upon the ramparts, though the great open spaces below were devoid of any signs of a hostile populace.
“I wonder if his excellency would like to change his shoes before starting,” Dave suggested to Bishop Whitlock, as he glanced down at the governor’s dainty embroidered silken footgear.
“Are you going to take the governor with us?” asked the Bishop.
“He must go with us to the river front, and must remain there until all of our party is safe,” Darrin answered.
“But you really mustn’t make him walk,” objected the Bishop. “If you did, it would be such an affront as the people of Nu-ping would never forgive in foreigners. There are several sedan chairs in the yamen, and there are still enough attendants left to bear it. Permit me, Mr. Darrin, to see to the matter of the governor’s sedan.”
“I shall be deeply grateful, sir, if you will,” was Dave’s answer.
In less than five minutes the chair was ready, resting on the shoulders of eight husky coolies.
Ten minutes later the gates were thrown open. The defenders, hastily recalled from the ramparts, had formed.
First in the line were the marines, with a machine gun. Then followed a detachment of sailors. Danny Grin took command of the advance guard. Behind this were the wounded, some of whom hobbled slowly and painfully, as there was no conveyance except for those who had been badly hurt.