“Ay, heavenborn! Here! Bring up that horse, thou, and Suliman's! Ride him cross-saddle, heavenborn—there were no side-saddles in Siroeh! Nay, he is just a little frightened. He will stand—he will not throw thee! I did better than I thought, heavenborn. I come with four-and-twenty, making twenty-six with me and Suliman. An escort for a queen! So—sit him quietly. Leave the reins free. Suliman will lead him! Ho! Fronnnt! Rank—'bout-face!”
“My son!” wailed the High Priest. “Where is my son?”
“Tell him, Suliman!”
“Where I caught thee, thou idol-briber!” snarled the Risaldar's half-brother.
“Where? In that den of stinks. Gagged and bound all this while?”
“Ha! Gagged and bound and out of mischief where all priests and priests' sons ought to be!” laughed Mahommed Khan. “Farward! Farm twos Ter-r-r-ott!”
In went the spur, and the snorting, rattling, clanking cavalcade sidled and pranced out of the temple into the sunshine, with Ruth and Suliman in the midst of them.
“Gallop!” roared the Risaldar, the moment that the last horse was clear of the temple-doors. And in that instant he saw what the High Priest's whispering had meant.
Coming up the street toward them was a horde of silent, hurrying Hindus, armed with swords and spears, wearing all of them the caste-marks of the Brahman—well-fed, indignant relations of the priests, intent on avenging the defilement of Kharvani's temple.
“Canter! Fronnnt—farm—Gallop! Charge!”