"Yes," said the girl; "four more guns than the Maharana of Khandawar himself is entitled to."
"How do you explain it?"
"I don't," she replied simply. "Can you?"
He was dumb. Could it be possible that this imperial greeting was intended for the man supposed to be the Maharana of Khandawar—Har Dyal Rutton? He glanced sharply at the girl, but her face was shadowed; and he believed she suspected nothing.
A great hush had fallen, replacing the rolling thunder of the State ordnance. Even the voice of the city seemed moderate, subdued. In silence the massive gates studded with sharp-toothed elephant-spikes swung open.
With a grunt, Ram Nath cracked his whiplash and the tonga sped into the city. Amber bent forward.
"What's the name of that gate, Ram Nath—if you happen to know?"
"That," said the tonga-wallah in a level voice, "is known as the Gateway of Swords, sahib." He added in his own good time: "But not the Gateway of Swords."
Amber failed to educe from him any satisfactory explanation of this orphic utterance.