He set his heels to his horse, and followed by his troopers dashed down upon the gate, drawing his sabre as he rode. And when within some fifteen yards of the gate the horse which had first roused their suspicion burst from a street close beside them, and turning to the gate crashed on towards it, its hoofs striking sparks from the stones. Mounted upon the beast was a strange figure; for, if Owen could believe his eyes, there was the white leader of Holkar's forces, naked but for a light under-garment, his bare legs and arms showing and his moustaches blowing in the wind. "Treachery! Keep the gates closed and turn out the guard. Treachery!" he shouted. Owen waved his sabre over his head and again set his heels to his horse. It was a race, and the Colonel had barely the best of it. Dashing up to the astonished sentries, he pulled in his horse with such a jerk that the animal slid some four yards on its heels, scattering stones and sparks. Then he fell from the saddle, and leaping to his feet, rushed into the guard-house. A musket flashed, and a ball flew past the troopers. Shouts filled the air, while armed men appeared from all directions, seeming almost to rise from the ground. Then another musket flashed from the window of the guard-house, and the bullet struck Owen's sabre with a sharp metallic sound, glancing from it and hitting the wall behind. "Hold them while I open the gate," shouted our hero, flinging himself from the saddle--an example which Mulha and two of the troopers followed, while the remainder, some with their lances, but the majority with their sabres, charged at the enemy, scattering them. "Here is the bar. Up with it! Now pull!" Fortunately there was no lock, and therefore little difficulty in opening the gates. In little more than a minute one was thrown back, and the way was open. Owen climbed into his saddle, gave the word to his men, and was in the very act of departing when the figure of the Colonel appeared at the door of the guard-house. He was beside himself with rage, and could barely control his actions. But now was his opportunity, for the attention of the troopers was taken from the guard-house. He levelled a musket which he snatched from one of the soldiers, took as careful aim as his excitement would allow, and pressed the trigger. "To Cornet Owen Jones," he shouted, as the bullet struck. "A legacy from Colonel Le Pourton." He stood there at the door, clutching the woodwork and eagerly watching to see what effect his shot would have. His eyes started from his head, so great was his eagerness, and when Owen tottered and fell from his saddle the inhuman Frenchman gave vent to a shriek of joy which could be heard at the palace. "Down! Mon dieu! He is killed! At last this matter is settled!" There was a shout of rage from the troopers, two of them slipping from their saddles and lifting their officer. Then as they raised him to the arms of Mulha there was a fierce cry from the native officer.