"Thy sword! This man had a sword when he was taken! Give him thine, unless there is a better to be had." There was nothing for it but obedience, for few things were more certain than that Alwa was not there to waste time asking for anything he would not fight for if refused.

The guard held out his long sword, hilt first, and Ali Partab strapped it on.
"I had three horses when they took me," he asserted, "three good ones, sound and swift, belonging to my master." "Then take three of Jaimihr's!" It took ten minutes more for Ali Partab and two of Alwa's men to search the stables and bring out the three best chargers of the twenty and more reserved for Jaimihr's private use.

They were wonders of horses, half-Arab and half-native-bred, clean-limbed and firm--worth more, each one of them, than all three of Mahommed Gunga's put together.
"Are they good enough ?" demanded Alwa.
"My master will be satisfied," grinned Ali Partab.
"Open the gate, then!" Alwa was peering through the blackness for a sight of firearms, but could see none.

He guessed--and he was right--that the guard had taken full advantage of their master's absence, and had been gambling in a corner while their rifles rested under cover somewhere else.

For a second he hesitated, dallying with the notion of disarming the guard before he left, then decided that a fight was scarcely worth the risking now, and with ten good men behind him he wheeled and scooted through the wide-flung gates into outer gloom.
He galloped none too fast, for his party was barely out of range before a ragged volley ripped from the palace-wall; one of his men, hampered and delayed by a led horse that was trying to break away from him, was actually hit, and begged Alwa to ride back and burn the palace after all.