The oncoming rider had wheeled again; he had caught the cavalry, that rode to meet him, unawares.

They were not yet certain whether he was friend or foe, and they were milling in a bunch, shouting orders to one another.

He, spurring like a maniac, was heading straight for the searching party, who had formed to cut him off.

He seemed to have thrown his heart over Alwa's iron gate and to be thundering on hell's own horse in quest of it again.
Alwa's eight slipped down the defile as quickly as phantoms would have dared in that tricky moon-light.

One of them shouted from below.