There seemed to him something strangely preconcerted about much of
the hurrying to and fro below him. It struck him as being far too
orderly to be the mere boiling of a loot-crazed mob.
His prisoners gave the secret to him. They were leaning against the
parapet on the other side--the side closest to the city-wall, and
farthest from the top of the causeway--and they were chattering together
excitedly in undertones. Brown walked round to where they stood,
and stared where they stared. Just as they had done, he recognized
what lay below him.
It was faintly outlined in the blackness, picked out here and there
by lanterns, and still too far away for most civilians to name it
until the sun rose and showed its detail. But Brown, the soldier,
knew on the instant, and so did his men.
Suddenly and unexpectedly and sweetly, like a voice in the night
that spoke of hope and strength and the rebirth of order out of chaos,
a bugle gave tongue from where the lanterns swung in straight-kept lines.
"Oh, Juggut Khan! Oh, Juggut Khan!"
Bill Brown's voice boomed through the opening in the dome, and spread
down the walls of the powder-magazine as though in the inside of
a speaking-trumpet.
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