But the solid streets soon gave way to open places, and low mud
cabins, where the horses' hoofs beat on a sun-baked road, and
where the inhabitants sat lazily before the door in the fading
light, with no knowledge of the changes that the day had wrought
in the city, and with only a moment's curious interest in the
hooded carriage, and the grim, white-faced foreigners who guarded
it.

Clay turned his pony into a trot at Langham's side. His face was
pale and drawn.

As the danger of immediate pursuit and capture grew less, the
carriage had slackened its pace, and for some minutes the
outriders galloped on together side by side in silence. But the
same thought was in the mind of each, and when Langham spoke
it was as though he were continuing where he had but just been
interrupted.

He laid his hand gently on Clay's arm. He did not turn his face
toward him, and his eyes were still peering into the shadows
before them. ``Tell me?'' he asked.

``He was coming up the stairs,'' Clay answered. He spoke in so
low a voice that Langham had to lean from his saddle to hear him.
``They were close behind; but when they saw her they stopped and
refused to go farther. I called to him to come away, but he
would not understand. They killed him before he really
understood what they meant to do. He was dead almost before I
reached him. He died in my arms.'' There was a long pause. ``I
wonder if he knows that?'' Clay said.