The khansaman, limp and damp after his unwonted exercise, had squatted on
the floor and was fanning himself, groaning deeply. Desmond went to the
window of the room and looked out over the country; wondering, longing,
fearing. As he gazed disconsolately before him, he caught sight of a
party of horsemen rapidly approaching. Bidding the khansaman stifle his
groans, he watched them eagerly through the chiks of the window. Soon a
dozen native horsemen cantered up to the front gate and drew rein.
One of them, clad in turban of gold tissue, short blue jacket lavishly
decorated with gold, and crimson trousers, bade the rest dismount. He was
a tall man, a handsome figure in his fine array. He wore a sword with
hilt inlaid with gold, the scabbard covered with crimson velvet; and in
his girdle was stuck a knife with agate handle, and a small Moorish
dagger ornamented with gold and silver.
He stood for a time gazing as in perplexity at the broken gateway. His
face was concealed by his turban from Desmond, looking from above. But
when he directed his glance upward, Desmond, peering through the chiks,
could scarcely believe his eyes. The features were those of Marmaduke
Diggle. His heart thumped against his ribs. Never, perhaps, in the whole
course of his adventures, had he been in such deadly peril. The
appearance of the party had been so sudden, and he had been so deeply
engrossed with his musings, that he had not had time to think of his own
situation.
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