CHAPTER XXVIII
THE VOICE OF MAHMOUD
As Donovan had anticipated, and as might have been expected, the first rush of Monsey's men toward the hold and the ladder leading to the tower was without result except for certain casualties among the attackers.
Aravang, standing over the aperture in the floor through which the ladder led, was armed only with a short wooden pole. But with this weapon—which, indeed, the kul favored over others—he sent the first two or three who ventured up the ladder back with broken heads.
Donovan, climbing alertly down the stairs from above, seconded his effort with the clip of cartridges in the Mauser rifle—five shots that drove the attackers back, dragging their wounded, from the ladder and the lower room.
"Ah, that was well. Excellency!" grunted the burly native, leaning on his staff. The reflected light from the courtyard served to disclose the two men and the woman to each other dimly.
"It was but the beginning," responded the Englishman in Aravang's tongue. "We must hold the tower now. This is the only entrance."
He paused to count the cartridges in the bandoleer. Two or three dozen rounds, at the most. The six chambers of the revolver were filled, but extra ammunition was lacking. Aravang, experienced in such warfare, was almost indifferent.
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