Ten turnings further away by that time, Rosemary McClean pressed on
through the hot, dinning swarm of humanity, missing no opportunity to
slip her pony through an opening, but trying, too, to seem unaware that
she was followed. She chose narrow, winding ways, where the awnings
almost met above the middle of the street, and where a cavalcade of
horsemen would not be likely to follow her--only to hear a roar
behind her, as the prince's escort started slashing at the awnings with
their swords.

There was a rush and a din of shouting beside her and ahead, as the
frightened merchants scurried to pull down their awnings before the
ruthless horse-men could ride down on them; the narrow street
transformed itself almost on the instant into a undraped, cleared
defile between two walls. And after that she kept to the broader
streets, where there was room in the middle for a troop to follow, four
abreast, should it choose. She had no mind to seek her own safety at
the expense of men whose souls her father was laboring so hard to save.

She got no credit, though, for consideration--only blame for what the
swordsmen had already done. One man--a Maharati trader--
half-naked, his black hair coiled into a shaggy rope and twisted up
above his neck--followed her, side-tracking through the mazy byways
of the bewildering mart, and coming out ahead of her--or lurking
beside bales of merchandise and waiting his opportunity to leap from
shadow into shadow unobserved.

He followed her until she reached the open, where a double row of trees
on each side marked the edge of a big square, large enough for the
drilling of an army. Along one side of the square there ran the high