They went down into the outer courtyard, sent the servants to their appointed places without any noise or confusion, and took their stand at the window over the gateway, where they were joined by Fitz and Kustendjian. They stood there, waiting breathlessly, for some minutes, each man’s hand on his weapon, while behind them the fierce eyes and gleaming blades of Ismail Bakhsh and his subordinates reflected the glare of the torches which were now beginning to appear at the end of the winding street. Nearer and nearer came the crowd, apparently all mad with joy, leaping, dancing, tearing off clothes and flinging them on the ground, waving torches, shouting, singing, and yelling. Some looked up at the window as they passed it, and it seemed to the little band of white men standing there that their gestures became intolerably derisive, and that their faces took on a fiendish grin as they massed themselves in the street beyond the Mission and waited—in so far as those still pressing upon them from behind would allow them to wait. Dick felt his heart thumping against his ribs; he was aware that Kustendjian had sat down in a corner and hidden his face from the horror he expected to see, that Fitz was leaning against the wall with white lips and staring eyes, and that Mr Hicks was uttering spasmodic exhortations at momentary intervals—“Steady, boys! Keep up; don’t let ’em see you wilt. Never give in!”—such as bespoke rather, perhaps, the turmoil of his own mind than his estimate of the state of feeling of his companions.
“Soldiers!” murmured some one, and a squadron of cavalry defiled slowly past, saluting as they came level with the window—a piece of mockery for which Dick cursed them in his heart. Then more torches, more musical instruments, more excited people, banners, dancing-girls, gliding and posturing to the sounds of the music, with their long coloured scarfs twirled daintily on the tips of their outspread fingers; and then two men riding alone, wearing robes of honour. As they reached the gate they paused and waited; then one of them looked up, and in tones of extreme calmness addressed the group at the window.
“You don’t mean to keep me here all night, North, do you? Mr Anstruther, I give you my word of honour that I am not a ghost yet.”
How they got down the stairs and opened the gate none of them ever knew, but in another minute Stratford was among them, unhurt, and indulging in a little chaff by way of maintaining his own composure.
“I wonder you didn’t shoot me when I looked up just now, North. If ever I saw murder in a man’s eye, I saw it in yours then. Mr Hicks, you have as keen a scent for a battle as any vulture. The way you turn up when you think we are likely to be in trouble is positively pathetic. I have some further use for my arm, Anstruther, if you have finished wringing my hand off. Peace be with you, Ismail Bakhsh! I fear you are disappointed that there is to be no fighting to-night?”
“My lord is pleased to jest,” said Ismail Bakhsh, reprovingly, as he directed the closing of the gate. The processionists outside had turned back, and were marching homewards amid a fresh outburst of minstrelsy, with the man who had accompanied Stratford at their head. No one thought of asking who he was, nor, indeed, of paying the slightest attention to affairs outside, as Stratford was assisted, quite unnecessarily, to dismount, and escorted through the archway into the inner court. But he was not to arrive altogether unheralded. Brought to his senses by Stratford’s commonplace greeting, Fitz had dashed across the court and up to the terrace, the only man who remembered in the excitement of the moment that the joyful news ought not to be allowed to burst suddenly upon the ladies. The fresh hope in his voice—a hope to which they had been strangers for what seemed interminable hours—roused them from their lethargy of grief, and they came out into the verandah with tear-stained faces and ruffled hair, both looking as though they had cried until they could cry no more.
“Good news, Lady Haigh!” panted Fitz. “Miss Keeling, they haven’t murdered him after all. He is not a bit hurt. He will be here in a minute. He’s here now!”
This method of breaking the news, though strictly gradual, could scarcely be called gentle, and Lady Haigh and Georgia stood staring at Fitz without understanding him in the least. Seeing this, he tried a new plan, the first that recommended itself to his excited mind.
“Aren’t you going to put on your best things to greet the hero in, Miss Keeling? He’s dressed up to the eyes himself. You never saw such a get-up—most awfully swagger. You will never be able to keep him in countenance.”
“Oh, you absurd boy!” cried Georgia, and she sat down at the top of the steps and laughed wildly.