He ran to the parapet and watched in the fading light a little dust cloud that followed no visible track but headed straight toward them over desert.
“How d'you know that's Mahommed Gunga?” he demanded.
“Who else, huzoor? Who else would ride from that direction all alone and straight for this nest of wasps? Who else but Alwa or Mahommed Gunga? Alwa said he would not come, but would wait yonder.”
“It might be one of Alwa's men.”
“We have many good men, sahib—and many good horses—but no man or horse who could come at that pace after traversing those leagues of desert! That is Mahommed Gunga, unless a new fire-eater has been found. And what new man would know the way?”
Soon—staccato, like a drum-beat in the silence—came the welcome, thrilling cadence of the horse's hoofs—the steady thunder of a horse hard-ridden but not foundered. The sun went down and blackness supervened, but the sound increased, as one lone rider raced with the evening wind, head on.
It seemed like an hour before the lookout challenged from the crag that overhung the gate—before the would-be English words rang out; and all Asia and its jackals seemed to wait in silence for the answer.
“Howt-uh! Hukkums-thar!”
“Ma—hommed—Gunga—hai!”
“Hurrah!”