We had started up one of the principal streets, on our way to the house of a high functionary, though, of course, Rhodes and I had no idea whither we were bound. On either side the street, was a solid mass of humanity—many of the young people, by the way, having hair as white as snow, like that of our Nandradelphis. Of a sudden a man, lean of visage and with eyes that glowed like red coals, broke through the guards (a half dozen or so were marching along on either side of our little procession) and slashed savagely at the face of Rhodes with a great curved dagger. My companion sprang aside, almost thrusting me onto my knees, and the next instant he dealt the man a blow with his alpenstock. The blow, however, was a slanting one, ineffectual. With a scream, the fellow sprang again, his terrible knife upraised; but the guards threw themselves upon him, and he was dragged off, struggling and screaming like a maniac.
Of a truth, Rhodes had had a very narrow escape.
And what did it mean?
"It might," I said, "have been the act of a madman."
"It might have been," was Milton's answer. "But, unless I am greatly mistaken, there was something besides madness back of it."
Chapter 39
THE GOLDEN CITY
Our stay in that place was marred by no other untoward incident; but right glad was I when, on the following morning, we were in our boat and going down the stream once more.
"We ought to be safe out here," I remarked at last.