No one stopped to doubt the friendship
of arrivals from the north, for to that side there were no English,
and England's friends would surely follow byroads to her aid. The
city gates were wide open to admit wounded or messengers or friends--
with a view, even, to a possible retreat--and whoever cared could
ride through them unchallenged and unchecked.
Even when the crash of horses' hoofs rattled on the stone paving
outside the temple there was no suspicion. No move was made to find
out who it was who rode. But when the temple door reechoed to the
thunder of a sword-hilt and a voice roared "Open!" there was something
like a panic. The chanting stopped and the priests and the High
Priest listened to the stamping on the stone pavement at the
temple front.
"Open!" roared a voice again, and the thundering on the panels
recommenced. Then some one drew the bolt and a horse's head--a huge
Khaubuli stallion's--appeared, snorting and panting and wild-eyed.
"Farward!" roared the Risaldar Mahommed Khan, kneeling on young Bellairs'
winded charger.
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