They went down into the outer courtyard, sent the servants to their appointed places without any noise or confusion, and took their stand at the window over the gateway, where they were joined by Fitz and Kustendjian. They stood there, waiting breathlessly, for some minutes, each man’s hand on his weapon, while behind them the fierce eyes and gleaming blades of Ismail Bakhsh and his subordinates reflected the glare of the torches which were now beginning to appear at the end of the winding street. Nearer and nearer came the crowd, apparently all mad with joy, leaping, dancing, tearing off clothes and flinging them on the ground, waving torches, shouting, singing, and yelling. Some looked up at the window as they passed it, and it seemed to the little band of white men standing there that their gestures became intolerably derisive, and that their faces took on a fiendish grin as they massed themselves in the street beyond the Mission and waited--in so far as those still pressing upon them from behind would allow them to wait. Dick felt his heart thumping against his ribs; he was aware that Kustendjian had sat down in a corner and hidden his face from the horror he expected to see, that Fitz was leaning against the wall with white lips and staring eyes, and that Mr Hicks was uttering spasmodic exhortations at momentary intervals--“Steady, boys! Keep up; don’t let ’em see you wilt. Never give in!”--such as bespoke rather, perhaps, the turmoil of his own mind than his estimate of the state of feeling of his companions. “Soldiers!” murmured some one, and a squadron of cavalry defiled slowly past, saluting as they came level with the window--a piece of mockery for which Dick cursed them in his heart. Then more torches, more musical instruments, more excited people, banners, dancing-girls, gliding and posturing to the sounds of the music, with their long coloured scarfs twirled daintily on the tips of their outspread fingers; and then two men riding alone, wearing robes of honour. As they reached the gate they paused and waited; then one of them looked up, and in tones of extreme calmness addressed the group at the window. “You don’t mean to keep me here all night, North, do you? Mr Anstruther, I give you my word of honour that I am not a ghost yet.” How they got down the stairs and opened the gate none of them ever knew, but in another minute Stratford was among them, unhurt, and indulging in a little chaff by way of maintaining his own composure. “I wonder you didn’t shoot me when I looked up just now, North. If ever I saw murder in a man’s eye, I saw it in yours then. Mr Hicks, you have as keen a scent for a battle as any vulture. The way you turn up when you think we are likely to be in trouble is positively pathetic. I have some further use for my arm, Anstruther, if you have finished wringing my hand off. Peace be with you, Ismail Bakhsh! I fear you are disappointed that there is to be no fighting to-night?”