“I know not, sahib.”
Alwa—glad enough of the relief from puzzling his brain—ran to the rampart and looked long at the moving dot that was coming noisily toward his fastness but that gave no sign of its identity or purpose.
“Whoever he is can see them,” he vowed. “The moon shines full on them. Either he is a man of theirs or else a madman!”
He watched for five more minutes without speaking. Cunningham and Mahommed Gunga, coming out at last in search of him, saw the strained figures of the garrison peering downward through the yellow moon rays, and took stand on either side of him to gaze, too, in spellbound silence.
“If he is their man,” said Alwa presently, “he will turn now. He will change direction and ride for the main body of them yonder. He can see them now easily. Yes. See. He is their man!”
On a horse that staggered gamely—silhouetted and beginning to show detail in the yellow light—a man whose nationality or caste could not be recognized rode straight for the bivouacking cavalry, and a swarm of them rode out at a walk to meet him.
The tension on the ramparts was relaxed then. As a friend in direst need the man would have been welcome. As one of enemy, with a message for them, however urgent, he was no more than an incident.
“By Allah!” roared Alwa suddenly. “That is no man of theirs! Quick! To the wheels! Man the wheels! Eight men to horse!”
He took the cord himself, to send the necessary signal down into the belly of the rock. From his stables, where men and horses seemed to stand ready day and night, ten troopers cantered out, scattering the sparks, the whites of their horses' eyes and their drawn blades gleaming; without another order they dipped down the breakneck gorge, to wait below. The oncoming rider had wheeled again; he had caught the cavalry, that rode to meet him, unawares. They were not yet certain whether he was friend or foe, and they were milling in a bunch, shouting orders to one another. He, spurring like a maniac, was heading straight for the searching party, who had formed to cut him off. He seemed to have thrown his heart over Alwa's iron gate and to be thundering on hell's own horse in quest of it again.
Alwa's eight slipped down the defile as quickly as phantoms would have dared in that tricky moon-light. One of them shouted from below. Alwa jerked the cord, and the great gate yawned, well-oiled and silent. The oncomer raced straight for the middle of the intercepting line of horsemen; they—knowing him by this time for no friend—started to meet him; and Alwa's eight, unannounced and unexpected, whirled into them from the rear.