A shot rang out, followed by a scream. The black swayed and fell, but others rushed with naked cimeters to take his place. Allison leaned against the bench and fired again—and again—and again, a fierce joy filling his breast at the outcries of his victims, even while the blood surged through his brain and he felt the numbness of death creeping over him.
The shots from the revolver were answered by loud cries from the other end of the garden—that nearest the house. Torches flashed, sending gleams of light dancing over the flowers and grasses toward the silent group beside the stone bench. Then came Dirrag, bounding over the sward with a band of chosen warriors in his wake.
At the ghastly tableau which the lights disclosed they paused, looking on one another with horror in their eyes. And now the deep tones of the gong from the west gate smote upon the air, rousing with its brazen warning all the sleeping city. The far-away outlines of the wall sprang into flame, while the hoarse cry of a multitude rolled grimly out upon the midnight zephyrs.
In the garden of Agahr a grizzled warrior bent over Allison’s unconscious form.
“I think, my captain, the American still lives,” he said.
For a moment Dirrag did not reply. He was gazing sadly upon the lovely face of Maie, whereon still lingered the traces of a happy smile. But the dark eyes, inscrutable as ever, were wide and staring, and the warrior leaned over and gently covered the dainty form with the folds of her mantle.
Then he stood up and coughed, for the night air had gotten into his throat.
“Come along, you dogs!” he growled. “Let us report to the Khan. The conspirator he sent us to arrest has escaped him.”
“And the American?” asked a man.
“Oh, the American?” Dirrag hesitated, wondering how his master would desire him to act. “Well, bring the infidel dog along with you,” he said.