ESCAPED
Once more Roy felt helpless and hopeless before the great task which
seemed to be laid upon him. He alone out of all the little
Heir-to-Empire's guardians knew the dire danger he was in. Yet how could
he, a poor, prisoned Râjput lad, save the young prince?
Still he had to be saved; he must be saved; and there was no time to be
lost. At dawn the firing would recommence from the Arkabân hill; at dawn
the helpless child would be in the half-breached bastion exposed to that
fire!
Yes! He, Roy, must get out somehow. If he could only loosen one bar of
the window so that he could squeeze through, then he might be able to
let himself down by a rope twined out of his long waist-cloth and
turban! Thus he might be able to get out of the fort! He might be able
to gain the camp on the Arkabân hill before dawn! So he might be able to
warn the guns not to fire on the bastion; might be able to tell them
that the Heir-to-Empire hung there!
What a number of "might be ables"; but would he be able, even for the
first task?
He took up his sword and began forthwith on the iron bar; but the mortar
was hard, he could scarcely make a mark upon it. Still, it must be done.
In order to free his arms better for the work he took off all his
clothes save his flimsy, sleeveless waistcoat and the loin-cloth that
was girt about him, and buckled down steadily. But when more than an
hour had passed the bar seemed as firm as ever. As he crouched down on
the window sill he could see through it to the flat roof of the
neighboring palaces; for it was a bright moonlight night still, though
the moon must be nigh to her setting. So the thought crossed his mind
that if he could only squeeze through he might be able to reach one of
those roofs; since, if he remembered aright, a wide cornice ran just
below. He paused for a second in his labour to see if this was so,
craning his head through the crossbars. Yes, the cornice was there!
Scarcely wide enough for a cat to walk, but if he got through in time he
would risk it. He must risk it!
But would he get through in time? He set to work again feverishly until
suddenly a familiar sound reached his ear from outside; the sound of a
cat purring!
Could it be Down? She had not found them out in their new prison, but if
she had happened to be on the roof when he looked out of the window she
might have seen him or smelled him--yes! There was a white cat on the
cornice, and the next moment Down was on the sill, arching her back and
purring away contentedly.
So she had found them at last--no! not _them_, for the Heir-to-Empire
was not there--he had been stolen away! Roy could have leaned his head
on Down's soft fur and cried his heart out in despair at his own
helplessness, but he set his teeth instead and dug harder with the sword
point.
Would the bar never loosen? So the minutes passed without a sound save
the grating of the eager sword and the soft, soothing purr of the cat as
she sat beside him watching him indifferently. Then suddenly the latter
ceased and Down leaped swiftly to the floor of the cell. Doubtless she
heard something. Cats hear so many things humans do not hear, and they
seem to know so many things humans do not know, so perhaps she heard a
mouse far down the arched passage, or even in the next cell. Anyhow she
marched straight to the door and stood by it, _miaowing_ to be let out.
Ah! if he only could let her out! If the door were only open, thought
poor Roy, as he worked away at the still immovable bar.
"No! Down, no! I can't," he murmured bitterly as the cat _miaowed_ more
and more insistently.
But still the _miaowing_ went on. Down became quite plaintive, then
ill-used; finally she leaped onto Roy's shoulder, licked his ear with
her rough red tongue as if to coax him, and was back again at the door
asking to be let out.
Why was she so set on it? Roy turned to look at her half stupidly and
for a moment forgot his task; forgot how rapidly time was passing;
forgot everything save that Down was asking to be let out. So wearily he
passed to the door, and scarcely conscious of what he was doing, laid
his hand on the latch.
"I can't, Down," he said; "I can't open--" He broke off hurriedly.
For the latch yielded, the door opened!!
It could never have been locked!!
Had they forgotten, or, having secured the Heir-to-Empire, had they not
cared what became of the henchman? The latter, most likely, for there
was no sentry in the arched passage along which Down had already
disappeared.
Another second and Roy, sword in hand, had disappeared down it also,
remembering as he ran a certain little fretted marble balcony which gave
on the gardens below. For Roy, of course, knew every turn of the Bala
Hissar. This balcony opened onto an unused gallery room. To gain this,
bolt the heavy door behind him, and so, secure from interruption, set to
work twining a rope from strips torn from his turban and waistband did
not take long; but it was a good twenty minutes before he had knotted
all fast; though while he worked he thought of nothing else; of nothing
but somehow reaching the garden. Once there he would face the next
difficulty. One was enough at a time. And then, when he had made the
rope fast to one of the marble pillars and slid down it, it proved too
short. He swung with his feet just touching the topmost branch of a
blossoming peach tree. There was nothing for it but to let go, snatch at
the branches as he fell and trust to chance for safety. He found it; and
dropped to the ground amid a perfect shower of shed peach petals.
So he stood for an instant to consider what must come next. A gate! Aye!
but which? The farthest from the point of attack would be the best, as
there would be less vigilance there. That meant the Delhi gate, and
meant also a long round; yet he must be quick, for already there was a
faint lightening of the eastern sky. But the moon had set and the
shadows, always darker in the hour before dawn, lay upon all things.
And luckily he knew every turn of the Bala Hissar garden, knew every
point where danger might be expected. So he began to make his way
carefully. He dodged more than one sentry by creeping on through the
bushes while the man passed away from him, and crouched among them,
still as a mouse, while the measured march came toward him. And once he
had to run for bare life from a shower of arrows which a company of
soldiers sent into the darkness after a suspicious rustling in the
bushes. But mostly the men on duty had too much to think of outside the
walls to trouble themselves much about the things inside them.
So with doublings and turnings he came at last on the Delhi gate, a
small, round, flat-roofed building pierced by a high archway. It was too
dark for him to see its outline, but he knew it well, and paused against
the outside wall to consider what he had to do next. The place seemed
almost deserted, but a glimmer of light from the archway and the even
tramp of a sentry's footstep told it was not all unguarded.
What was he to do? It would be useless for him to try and steal past the
sentry, as the gate beyond must be locked, or at any rate bolted and
barred. He must either, therefore, try and overpower the man or else try
to gain the flat roof by the stairs--of which he knew the position--and,
trusting to find a rope or something of the sort in the upper room of
the gate, let himself down into the ditch outside.
Now, Roy was a well-grown lad of nigh fifteen, tall for his age, and
with his light, youthful sinews of iron might well be a match for many a
man, especially as his purpose was like steel, and that is ever half the
battle. But there was the chance of other soldiers being within call,
and that might mean failure. Now, _that_ must not be. Roy had to
succeed--he must!
Therefore the roof was the wiser, safer plan; he must make for the
stairs, trusting to escape notice when the sentry's back was turned.
Till then--silence!
But even as he settled this in his mind Fate was against him. As he
crouched in the darkness something cold suddenly touched his face, and
the next moment a clamour of excited yappings and joyful barks arose,
as something warm and furry and cold and slobbery flung itself all over
him.
Tumbu! It could be nothing but blundering, bumbling Tumbu! He made one
useless effort to still the dog, then rose to his feet feeling himself
discovered, prepared to run for it. But it was too late. A sentry,
lantern in hand, roused by the commotion, barred the way. All seemed
lost, but a ray of hope shone when the familiar voice of the Afghan
sentry, the unrepentant turncoat, was heard as the lantern waved in
Roy's very face.
"By my word, one of the Kings! How come you hither at this time o'
night, friend?"
The voice was a little thick, as if the owner, finding the quiet of the
Delhi Gate wearisome, had sought amusement in a skin of wine.
Roy gave a gasp--he was too confused for thought. "The dog--" he began.
"Aye! The dog that was yours and is mine," jeered the sentry. "So he
nosed you out, did he? Knows his duty--good dog, Tumbu! Knows his master
now! Knows who saved him from starvation when he was lurking about in
the gutter. Eh! you brute!"
He lunged a kick at Tumbu, who retreated a step, looking from the new to
the old master, feeling, in truth, a trifle confused. For the Afghan
sentry had certainly found him homeless, friendless, and the dog had
stuck by him, feeling that here at least was something vaguely connected
with the past life. But now he stood doubtful, expectant, his little
ears pricked, his small eyes watchful.
"Well," continued the sentry with a half-drunken laugh, "dog or no dog,
you've no business here, so come along with me, my King."
He reached out a heavy hand, and Roy shrunk from it. As he did so there
came a sound which sent the blood to Roy's heart with a spasm of instant
hope, of possible escape. It was Tumbu's low growl as he realised that
some one wanted to touch his old master and that his old master did not
want to be touched.
"At him, Tumbu! At him, good dog!" The words came to Roy in a flash, and
like a flash the great, powerful dog leaped forward, his fur a-bristle,
his white teeth gleaming, and the next instant, taken by the suddenness
of the attack, the sentry lay on his back half stunned by the fall,
while Tumbu, on the top of him, checked even a cry by a clutch at his
throat. A soft clutch so far; but one that would tear through flesh if
needful.
Roy was on his knees beside the fallen man.
"Hist! not a sound or the dog shall kill you. He can. Give me the keys.
I want to get out of the gate! The keys, do you hear?"
The sentry tried to struggle, but warned by the weight of the dog on his
breast and those sharp teeth ready to close upon his throat, murmured
hoarsely, "It is only barred, but the bolts are difficult. If you will
let me get up and call off your dog----"
But Roy took no heed of his words. "Keep him there, Tumbu," he whispered
as he ran to the gate.
Bolted and barred it was, and in the darkness of the archway it was hard
to see, for the lantern had gone out in the scuffle. But there was no
time to lose, for already beyond the archway it showed faintly light.
One bar down! The sentry made a faint effort to stir, that was answered
by an ominous growl from Tumbu.
Only one more bolt now!
Roy's long fingers were at it--his whole strength went to it--it
creaked--groaned--slid, and with a sob of exultation Roy felt the fresh
air of dawn in his face as he stood outside the Bala Hissar.
But he had still much to do. The city must be skirted, the hill of
Arkabân gained, and already a faint primrose streak in the eastern sky
told of coming light.