The balance of them, with the exception of a single sentinel beside the gate, had re-entered the building from which they had been summoned.They were well built, strapping, painted fellows, their naked figures covered now by gorgeous robes against the chill of night.As they spoke of the stranger they laughed at the ease with which they had tricked him, and were still laughing as they threw themselves upon their sleeping silks and furs to resume their broken slumber.It was evident that they constituted a guard detailed for the gate beside which they slept, and it was equally evident that the gates were guarded and the city watched much more carefully than Turan had believed.Chagrined indeed had been the Jed of Gathol had he dreamed that he was being so neatly tricked.
As Turan proceeded along the avenue he passed other sentries beside other doors but now he gave them small heed, since they neither challenged nor otherwise outwardly noted his passing; but while at nearly every turn of the erratic avenue he passed one or more of these silent sentinels he could not guess that he had passed one of them many times and that his every move was watched by silent, clever stalkers.Scarce had he passed a certain one of these rigid guardsmen before the fellow awoke to sudden life, bounded across the avenue, entered a narrow opening in the outer wall where he swiftly followed a corridor built within the wall itself until presently he emerged a little distance ahead of Turan, where he assumed the stiff and silent attitude of a soldier upon guard.Nor did Turan know that a second followed in the shadows of the buildings behind him, nor of the third who hastened ahead of him upon some urgent mission.
And so the panthan moved through the silent streets of the strange city in search of food and drink for the woman he loved.
Men and women looked down upon him from shadowy balconies, but spoke not; and sentinels saw him pass and did not challenge.
Presently from along the avenue before him came the familiar sound of clanking accouterments, the herald of marching warriors, and almost simultaneously he saw upon his right an open doorway dimly lighted from within.It was the only available place where he might seek to hide from the approaching company, and while he had passed several sentries unquestioned he could scarce hope to escape scrutiny and questioning from a patrol, as he naturally assumed this body of men to be.
Inside the doorway he discovered a passage turning abruptly to the right and almost immediately thereafter to the left.There was none in sight within and so he stepped cautiously around the second turn the more effectually to be hidden from the street.
Before him stretched a long corridor, dimly lighted like the entrance.Waiting there he heard the party approach the building, he heard someone at the entrance to his hiding place, and then he heard the door past which he had come slam to.He laid his hand upon his sword, expecting momentarily to hear footsteps approaching along the corridor; but none came.He approached the turn and looked around it; the corridor was empty to the closed door.Whoever had closed it had remained upon the outside.
Turan waited, listening.He heard no sound.Then he advanced to the door and placed an ear against it.All was silence in the street beyond.A sudden draft must have closed the door, or perhaps it was the duty of the patrol to see to such things.It was immaterial.They had evidently passed on and now he would return to the street and continue upon his way.Somewhere there would be a public fountain where he could obtain water, and the chance of food lay in the strings of dried vegetables and meat which hung before the doorways of nearly every Barsoomian home of the poorer classes that he had ever seen.It was this district he was seeking, and it was for this reason his search had led him away from the main gate of the city which he knew would not be located in a poor district.
He attempted to open the door only to find that it resisted his every effort--it was locked upon the outside.Here indeed was a sorry contretemps.Turan the panthan scratched his head."Fortune frowns upon me," he murmured; but beyond the door, Fate, in the form of a painted warrior, stood smiling.Neatly had he tricked the unwary stranger.The lighted doorway, the marching patrol--these had been planned and timed to a nicety by the third warrior who had sped ahead of Turan along another avenue, and the stranger had done precisely what the fellow had thought he would do--no wonder, then, that he smiled.
This exit barred to him Turan turned back into the corridor.He followed it cautiously and silently.Occasionally there was a door on one side or the other.These he tried only to find each securely locked.The corridor wound more erratically the farther he advanced.A locked door barred his way at its end, but a door upon his right opened and he stepped into a dimly-lighted chamber, about the walls of which were three other doors, each of which he tried in turn.Two were locked; the other opened upon a runway leading downward.It was spiral and he could see no farther than the first turn.A door in the corridor he had quitted opened after he had passed, and the third warrior stepped out and followed after him.A faint smile still lingered upon the fellow's grim lips.
