Marching Sands
were met with arrows of the tumani and driven back. They fled easily.
Forced to hand-grips, the Chinese at the wall wavered.
"Aie!" cried Timur. "The fight goes well. I am young again." He pointed exultantly at the leaping forms of the hunters.
The girl walked quietly at Gray's side. The American picked up an empty musket and went forward. It was a poor weapon, but it served. Gela was in advance of his followers, who had cleared the wall now and were pacing forward, seeking out the groups of Chinese.
By now the soldiers were running back through the outskirts of the city.
Gray could see the leper pack mingling with the shadows among the sand dunes. Occasionally, there was a shrill cry as the Wusun hunted out a yellow-robed Buddhist. The Chinese were fleeing in earnest. The only light now came from the moon. It was a battle of shadows, wherein dim forms leaped and struck with bared knives, peering at each other's face.
"Aie!" echoed the old chieftain, who was leaning on the shoulder of a tumani, "this is the way our fathers drove their foes before them. It is a goodly sight."
He hobbled on, refusing to be left behind. Gray drew a deep breath, surveying the scene with ex-
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