“RALPH CUNNINGHAM.”
“Would God I could see the clear course!” laughed Alwa.
“Call the Sikh, please.”
The Sikh came running, and Cunningham gave him the folded note.
“Have you a horse for him, Alwa-sahib?”
“That has been attended to, sahib,” the Sikh answered. “The Alwa-sahib has given me a wonder of a horse.”
“Very well, then, Jaidev Singh. Watch your chance. Go to the parapet, and when you see by their lanterns that the cavalry below have ridden off, then race for all you're worth with that news for Byng-bahadur!”
“Salaam, sahib!” said the Sikh.
“Salaam, Jaidev Singh. And now hide, every-body! Don't let Jaimihr get the impression that we're playing with him.”
A little later Miss McClean led Jaimihr through a passage in the rock, off which axe-hewn cells led on either side, to the far side of the summit, where the parapet was higher but the wall was very much less sheer. The Prince's arms were still too sore from the wrenching he received when they took him prisoner for him to dare trust himself hand over hand on a rope; she had to make the rope fast beneath his armpits, and then lower him slowly, taking two turns with the rope round the waist of a brass cannon. The Prince fended himself off the ragged wall with hands and feet, and called up instructions to her as loudly as he dared.