Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Nineteen.Hopes and Fears.A Regimental band was playing in the grounds of the Shâlalai Club, which institution constituted the ordinary afternoon resort of the society of the station.A row of subalterns were roosting on the railing in front of the exclusively male department of the club, while their dogs fought and frisked, and snarled and panted, on the sward underneath. Every variety of dog—large and small, mongrel and thoroughbred—was there represented; indeed far more variety than might have been discerned among their owners, who, for the most part, were wonderfully alike; as to ideas, no less than in outward aspect.As the afternoon wore on, more subs would ride up by twos and threes, on bicycles or in dog-carts—or even the homely necessary “gharri”—with more dogs, and after going inside for a “peg,” would emerge to swell the ranks of those already on the rail; their dogs the while engaging in combat with those already on the sward.This rail-roost was a deeply cherished institution, which no consideration apparently was able to shake; whether the frowns or hints of superiors, or the attractions of the ornamental sex. This was scarcely surprising, for the ornamental sex as represented at Shâlalai was, with very little exception, singularly unornamental; which, though paradoxical, was none the less fact.The tennis courts were in full blast, with a fringe of spectators. There were many sunshades and up-to-date hats and costumes scattered about the lawn, yet upwards of forty British subalterns roosted upon the railing.“Hallo, Cox,” sung out one, hailing a new comer. “When are you going to catch Umar Khan?”“No betting on this time, Cox,” said another, “unless it’s on Umar Khan.”He addressed was a handsome, pleasant, fresh faced young fellow, who held a somewhat important political post. The point of the banter on the subject of Umar Khan was that Cox had started in pursuit of that bold bandit immediately on receipt of the news of the Mehriâb station affair. He had started absolutely confident of success, but he might as well have started to stalk the wily markhôr with the regimental band playing before him. That had been some weeks ago, but as yet neither Cox nor anyone else had ever come within measurable prospect of laying the marauder by the heels.“Oh,bus!” retorted Cox. “Pity they don’t turn out some of you fellows after him. A week or so of tumbling about among rocks and stones would do you all the good in life. Anyone know where Upward’s to be found, by the way?”“The jungle-wallah? He was in the billiard room just now knocking fits out of old Jermyn with that tiger-potting stroke of his. Why? Anything fresh turned up?”“I expect you fellows will soon be started after Umar Khan,” retorted Cox, looking knowing, as he turned away to find Upward.“Wonder if he really means it?” said one of the rail-roosters, after he had left, and then they fell to talking about the notorious brigand, and discussing a current rumour to the effect that the Government contemplated arresting the principal Marri chiefs for suspected complicity in Umar Khan’s misdemeanours, and holding them as hostages against the surrender of that outlaw, and the safe restoration of his prisoner.“Wonder if that poor devil Campian’s throat has been cut yet?” conjectured someone.“More than likely. If not it will be, directly any of the chiefs are interfered with.”“They won’t bone Mr Umar Khan,” said another Solon of the rail-roost. “He’s skipped over into Afghanistan long ago, and the Amir won’t give him up, you bet. Shouldn’t wonder if he was at the bottom of it all himself.” At that time the Amir of Kabul was a very Mephisto in the sight of the collective and amateur wisdom of the Northern border.A wave of interest here ran along the line of the rail-roosters—evoked by the bowling up of a neat dogcart, whose occupants, two in number, were alighting at the door of the feminine department of the club.“By Jove! Those are two pretty girls. And neither belong here,” added the speaker plaintively.“Shecanhandle the ribbons, that Miss Wymer,” cut in another of more sporting vein, who had been critically surveying the arrival of the turn-out. “She’s got a fine hand on that high-actioned gee of old Jermyn’s. Isn’t that the brute that Wendsley had to sell because his wife couldn’t drive him?”“No. You’ve got the affair all mixed,” returned yet another emphatically. And then, while a warm horse argument grew and thrived among one section, another continued and fostered apace the discussion concerning those just deposited there through the motive power of the quadruped under dispute.“I don’t think Miss Wymer is pretty,” declared a Solon of the rail. “She’s awfully fetching, though.”“Rather. There’s a something about her you don’t often meet with, and you don’t know what the devil it is, either. By the way, wasn’t old Bracebrydge properly smashed on her?”“Oh, he’s that on every woman under the sun—in rotation. This one let him have what for, though.”“Did she? Eh, what about? How was it?” exclaimed several.“Rather. They were talking about the Mehriâb affair, and Bracebrydge said something sneering about that poor plucky devil, Campian. You know what a blundering, tactless, offensive beast Bracebrydge can be. Well, he said they were all making too much of the affair, and more than hinted that Campian had only done what he did so as to seize the first opportunity of running away later on. Miss Wymer only answered that she thought she knew one or two who wouldn’t have waited for that—they’d have run away at the start. But it was the way she said it, looking him straight in the face all the time. By George, it was great, I can tell you—great. Bracebrydge looked as sick as if he had just been hit in the eye.”“Serve him jolly well right,” declared one of the listeners, and his opinion was universally seconded, for Bracebrydge was not popular among those who roosted on the railing.“I think Miss Cheriton’s the prettiest of the two,” said the youth who had first spoken. “She’s one of the most fetching girls I ever saw in my life.”“Then why don’t you make hay while the sun shines?” rejoined another. “Go and make yourself agreeable—if you can, that is. They’ve just gone into the library. Go and ask her to play tennis, or something, chappie.”“I think I will.” And sliding from the rail with some alacrity, away he went. Those remaining continued their subject.“Bracebrydge must have been a double-dyed ass to have hit that particular nail on the head. It’s my belief he couldn’t have hit the wrong one harder, anyway.”“The devil he couldn’t!”“Well, I don’t know, mind. Only look at the opportunities they had, thrown almost entirely upon each other up there, for old Jermyn doesn’t count. If they hadn’t altogether set up abundobust, it was most likely only a question of time.”“MissWymer hasn’t been to a dance since that affair,” struck in another oracle of the rail. “Looks as if there was some fire beneath the smoke. What?”“That don’t follow, either. Mind you, the chap deliberately went to have his throat cut so that the others should be let go, and while his fate is a matter of uncertainty it is only what a nice girl like that would do to keep a bit quiet. She wouldn’t care to think, while she was frisking about at dances, that at that very moment they might be hacking the poor chap to pieces.”It so happened that the theory set forth by the last two speakers expressed with very fair accuracy the real state of affairs. Naturally self-contained, and with immense power of control over her feelings, Vivien was able to support the terrible strain of those weeks without—in popular parlance—giving herself away. And it was a strain. Day and night his image was with her, but always as she had seen him last; calmly and cheerfully delivering himself into the merciless hands of these cruel, marauding fanatics, giving his life for her and hers. Of the old days she dared not even think—and, since this tragedy had come between, they seemed so far away. Small wonder, then, if she refrained from joining in the ordinary round of station gaieties, yet not too pointedly, and she was the better able to do this that, being a comparative stranger in the place, her abstention was ascribed to a natural seriousness of temperament. Even thus, however, it could not entirely escape comment, as we have seen.She and Nesta Cheriton had become great friends, although as different in temperament as in outward characteristics. In public, at any rate, they were generally about together, and in private, too, seemed to see a good deal of each other. It was almost as though they had some bond in common, and yet Vivien never by word or hint let out the ever present subject of her thoughts to any living soul. She had not quite lost hope, but as the days went by and nothing was heard either of the captive, or of the marauding outlaw who held him, she well nigh did lose it. Both seemed to have vanished into empty air.For the stipulated ransom had been duly paid. Colonel Jermyn, with the aid of Upward and the head forest guard, had met Umar Khan’s envoy—none other than Ihalil Mohammed himself—he who had negotiated the terms. Great was the amazement and disgust of all when told that the prisoner would not be handed over. It was not in thebundobust. Nothing had been said as to the restoration of Campian on payment of the five thousand rupees. The Colonel and Der’ Ali stared at each other in blank dismay, for they recognised that this was only too true. No such stipulation had been made, they remembered. But, of course, it had been understood, they put it to the envoy. That wily Baluchi merely shook his head slightly, and repeated—as impassable as ever, “It was not in thebundobust.”Then the Colonel raved and swore. It was treachery, black, infernal treachery. He believed they had murdered their prisoner already, at any rate, not onepiceshould they get from him until the sahib was handed over safe and sound. Then they should have everyannaof it. Not before.At this Ihalil Mohammed merely elevated one shaggy eyebrow, and remarked laconically:“Sheep are flayed after they are dead,not before.”The Colonel stared blankly over the apparent inconsequence of this remark, then, as the fiendish import of it dawned upon him, he lost his temper, and nearly his head. His hand flew to his revolver.This time Ihalil Mohammed elevated two shaggy eyebrows and observed:“Sheep are flayedand roastedafter they are dead—not before.”Then he relapsed into his wonted saturnine taciturnity.The others consulted together. Ihalil seemed hardly interested enough even to watch them. The wily Baluchi knew that the key to the whole situation was in his own hand. He had marked the visible discomfiture produced by his hideous threat. He knew that the stipulated sum would be paid, and that he himself would be suffered to depart with it unmolested—and, indeed, such was the case.“Is the sahib still alive?” asked the Colonel.“He is still alive.”“And well?”“And well.”“Very good. Now then, Der’ Ali. Tell this infernal scoundrel to tell his more infernal scoundrel of a chief that if he brings in the sahib safe and well within eight days from, this, and hands him over, we will pay him another five thousand rupees; but if any harm happens to him, then theSirkârwill never rest until he has hung him and every man Jack of the gang—hung ’em in pigskins, by God, and burnt them afterwards. What does he say to that?”Der’ Ali, being judicious, substituted courteous epithets for the naturally explosive ones which his master had directed at Umar Khan, and Der’ Ali, being a Moslem himself, refrained from repeating in plain terms so shocking a reference as that of which the blunt Feringhi had not scrupled to make use, substituting for it mysterious and sinister hints as to death by hanging under its most dreaded form. Ihalil’s reply was characteristically laconic.“Well, what does he say?” repeated the Colonel testily.“He say—he hears,Huzoor.”“Are they going to bring the sahib back, Der’ Ali?”“He say—he can’t say,Huzoor,” answered the interpreter, having elicited that terse reply.“Tell him to go to the devil, then,” said the Colonel, unable to resist an angry stamp of the foot.Der’ Ali rendered this as—“Go in peace,” and Ihalil, uttering an impassive “Salaam,” mounted his camel, and—did so.They watched the form of the retreating Baluchi, fast becoming a mere white speck in the desert waste with every stride of his camel, and shook their heads despondently. Would these wolves ever release their prey? Bhallu Khan was of a kindred tribe. What did he think of the chances? But the old forester, who, like most barbarians or semi-barbarians, always answer what they imagine the inquirers would like best to hear, replied that he thought the chances were good. All men loved money—even the sahibs would rather have plenty than little—he interpolated with a whimsical smile. Baluchi loved money too. Umar Khan would probably release his prisoner if plenty of rupees were offered him.But the eight days became fifteen, and still of the said prisoner there was no sign; and the fortnight grew into weeks, with like result. Then those interested in Campian’s fate felt gloomy indeed. They had almost abandoned hope.But whatever private woes and trials, the world rubs on as usual. Shâlalai at large was not particularly interested in Campian’s fate, except as an item of political excitement. It was far more interested in the capture or destruction of Umar Khan than in the rescue or murder of his prisoner; for that bold outlaw had set up something of a scare. That sort of outbreak was catching among these fierce, fanatical, predatory races, and it struck home. Shooting parties became decidedly nervous, and fewer withal; and those delightful, moonlight bicycling picnics, miles out along the smooth, level, military road, were given up as unsafe—for did not the Brahui villages dotting the plain on either side contain scowling, shaggy, sword-wearing ruffians in plenty, and was there not a wave of restlessness heaving through the lot?Fleming was one of those who decided that his own affairs were of paramount importance to himself; wherefore he continued to pay assiduous court to Nesta Cheriton. But the girl seemed to have altered somehow. She had grown quite subdued, not to say serious. The old, gay, sparkling high spirits were seldom there. Fleming, turning things over, shook a gloomy head, then dismissed his fears as absurd. Could it be there was anything between Campian and herself? They had perforce been thrown together a lot in Upward’s camp—moreover, when he and Bracebrydge had left, they had left the other behind them. Had he improved the shining hour then? Fleming recalled thetangiadventure, and swore to himself; but he soon recovered, and the restoration of his equanimity was effected through the agency of his looking-glass. It was too damned absurd, he told himself, surveying his really good-looking face and well-knit soldierly figure—that any girl could prefer a dry old stick like Campian, and a mere civilian at that—so, giving his gallant moustache an additional twist or two eyewards, he concluded to start off and place the matter beyond a doubt.But on reaching Upward’s bungalow ill chance awaited him. Nesta was not alone, and her mood was unpropitious. What was that? He could hardly believe his ears. She was depreciating—yes, actually depreciating—the British Army.“I don’t know what is the use of all these soldiers here in Shâlalai,” she was saying as he came in. “Thousands of them. How many are there, Captain Fleming? How many soldiers have we got in Shâlalai?”“Oh, about five thousand—of all sorts.”“About five thousand,” she repeated, “horse, foot, and artillery, and yet a dozen ragged Pathâns can race about the country, killing people at will.”“That everlasting Umar Khan, I suppose?” said Fleming, somewhat shortly, for he was not a little nettled at her disparaging, almost jeering, tone.“I think heisgoing to be the ‘everlasting’ Umar Khan,” she retorted quickly. “Why don’t some of you try and catch him, Captain Fleming? There are enough of you, at any rate.”“We must wait for orders, Miss Cheriton,” he replied stiffly.“If I were a man, and a soldier, I wouldn’t wait for orders if there was anything of that sort to be done,” she retorted, with delightful inconsistency. “I’d get leave to raise a troop, and I’d never rest till I brought in that Ghazi. All our jolly bicycle picnics are knocked on the head, and then Mr Upward has constantly to go into camp, and of course Mrs Upward will insist on going with him, and—I’m very fond of her.”Fleming, who had been twirling his moustache eyeward somewhat viciously, suddenly quit that refuge for the perturbed. An idea had struck him. By George, it was not merely on Campian’s account she wanted Umar Khan run to earth! Vastly relieved, he said:“There’s a good deal in what you say, Miss Cheriton. I must think out how the thing may be done.” Then he talked on other and indifferent matters, and shortly took his leave.Meanwhile the bi-annualjirgeh, or tribal council, was in progress at Shâlalai, and representatives of all the tribes and clans and septs gathered daily in the durbar hall to meet theSirkârand ventilate grievances and settle disputes, and in short to discuss matters generally between themselves and the Executive. Stately chiefs and their retinues—tall, dignified men, picturesque in their snowy turbans and long hair and flowing beards, wending thither beneath the plane-shaded avenue—passed in strange contrast the dapper sub skimming along on his bicycle, or fashionably attired ladies in their high-wheeled dogcart flashing by at a hard trot, bound for club or gymkhana ground. Such, however, they eyed as impassively as they did the crowd of low caste Hindus which thronged the bazaar; for the training of their wild desert home had left no room for the display of emotions. Now and then, recognising some official, they might utter a grave “Salaam,” accompanied by a slight raising of the hand, but that was all. A contrast indeed! The unchanging East, in its melancholy dignity and fund of awe-suggesting power—because power held in the mystery of reserve—jostled by fussy, domineering, up-to-date civilisation; the fierce, wild, untamable spirits masked by those copper-hued and dignified countenances, side by side with the careless, pleasure loving, yet intensely pushing and practical temperament underlying the fresh, tawny-haired Anglo-Saxon faces. Even the very headgear suggested a vivid contrast—the multitudinous folds of the snowy and graceful turban expressive of absence of all capacity for flurry—cool deliberateness, repose, wisdom—even as the cock of the perky “bowler” seemed a very object lesson in itself of push and bounce and “there-to-stay” tenacity.Now and then one or two of the sirdars would visit Upward to talk officially on forest matters in their respective districts, or to view his multifold trophies of the chase, which keenly interested them. These visits Upward encouraged, hoping to learn something of Campian’s fate. But it was of no avail. Of the massacre at Mehriâb station, and the doings of Umar Khan in general, the wily Asiatics professed the profoundest ignorance, not with effusive reiteration, but in a grave, nonchalant, dignified way, as though the matter were entirely unworthy of their notice or cognisance, once and for all. But to Vivien Wymer, who never lost an opportunity of studying these people, such visits were of untold interest; moreover, they seemed to result in a certain degree of hope renewed. These stately, courteous-mannered potentates had not got cruel faces. There was a noble look about most of them, even a benevolent one. Surely these were not the men to sanction a coldblooded murder.Meanwhile, during thejirgeh, the matter of Umar Khan was receiving the full attention of the Executive. It was one thing for the chiefs to protest ignorance in private and unofficial conversation with Upward, with whom, diplomatically, they had no earthly concern. Carefully and with due deliberation the authorities narrowed the net—and it was decided to arrest Yar Hussain Khan, who, as the outlaw’s feudal chief, was responsible for his behaviour—and a sirdar of the Brahuis who was proved to have sheltered and screened him.The chiefs in question made no trouble over the decision of theSirkâr. With Oriental impassibility they accepted the situation, and were placed under guard accordingly. But two nights later Umar Khan swooped down upon a Levy post within ten miles of Shâlalai, surprised and massacred the handful of Hindu sepoys in charge, and rolled a couple of field pieces down the mountain side, retiring as swiftly as he had appeared: while the Brahui clans in the neighbourhood began to make themselves disagreeable by various small acts of aggression which rendered it unsafe to venture many miles beyond the lines.Things began to look uncommonly lively in and about that station containing five thousand troops—horse, foot and artillery.

A Regimental band was playing in the grounds of the Shâlalai Club, which institution constituted the ordinary afternoon resort of the society of the station.

A row of subalterns were roosting on the railing in front of the exclusively male department of the club, while their dogs fought and frisked, and snarled and panted, on the sward underneath. Every variety of dog—large and small, mongrel and thoroughbred—was there represented; indeed far more variety than might have been discerned among their owners, who, for the most part, were wonderfully alike; as to ideas, no less than in outward aspect.

As the afternoon wore on, more subs would ride up by twos and threes, on bicycles or in dog-carts—or even the homely necessary “gharri”—with more dogs, and after going inside for a “peg,” would emerge to swell the ranks of those already on the rail; their dogs the while engaging in combat with those already on the sward.

This rail-roost was a deeply cherished institution, which no consideration apparently was able to shake; whether the frowns or hints of superiors, or the attractions of the ornamental sex. This was scarcely surprising, for the ornamental sex as represented at Shâlalai was, with very little exception, singularly unornamental; which, though paradoxical, was none the less fact.

The tennis courts were in full blast, with a fringe of spectators. There were many sunshades and up-to-date hats and costumes scattered about the lawn, yet upwards of forty British subalterns roosted upon the railing.

“Hallo, Cox,” sung out one, hailing a new comer. “When are you going to catch Umar Khan?”

“No betting on this time, Cox,” said another, “unless it’s on Umar Khan.”

He addressed was a handsome, pleasant, fresh faced young fellow, who held a somewhat important political post. The point of the banter on the subject of Umar Khan was that Cox had started in pursuit of that bold bandit immediately on receipt of the news of the Mehriâb station affair. He had started absolutely confident of success, but he might as well have started to stalk the wily markhôr with the regimental band playing before him. That had been some weeks ago, but as yet neither Cox nor anyone else had ever come within measurable prospect of laying the marauder by the heels.

“Oh,bus!” retorted Cox. “Pity they don’t turn out some of you fellows after him. A week or so of tumbling about among rocks and stones would do you all the good in life. Anyone know where Upward’s to be found, by the way?”

“The jungle-wallah? He was in the billiard room just now knocking fits out of old Jermyn with that tiger-potting stroke of his. Why? Anything fresh turned up?”

“I expect you fellows will soon be started after Umar Khan,” retorted Cox, looking knowing, as he turned away to find Upward.

“Wonder if he really means it?” said one of the rail-roosters, after he had left, and then they fell to talking about the notorious brigand, and discussing a current rumour to the effect that the Government contemplated arresting the principal Marri chiefs for suspected complicity in Umar Khan’s misdemeanours, and holding them as hostages against the surrender of that outlaw, and the safe restoration of his prisoner.

“Wonder if that poor devil Campian’s throat has been cut yet?” conjectured someone.

“More than likely. If not it will be, directly any of the chiefs are interfered with.”

“They won’t bone Mr Umar Khan,” said another Solon of the rail-roost. “He’s skipped over into Afghanistan long ago, and the Amir won’t give him up, you bet. Shouldn’t wonder if he was at the bottom of it all himself.” At that time the Amir of Kabul was a very Mephisto in the sight of the collective and amateur wisdom of the Northern border.

A wave of interest here ran along the line of the rail-roosters—evoked by the bowling up of a neat dogcart, whose occupants, two in number, were alighting at the door of the feminine department of the club.

“By Jove! Those are two pretty girls. And neither belong here,” added the speaker plaintively.

“Shecanhandle the ribbons, that Miss Wymer,” cut in another of more sporting vein, who had been critically surveying the arrival of the turn-out. “She’s got a fine hand on that high-actioned gee of old Jermyn’s. Isn’t that the brute that Wendsley had to sell because his wife couldn’t drive him?”

“No. You’ve got the affair all mixed,” returned yet another emphatically. And then, while a warm horse argument grew and thrived among one section, another continued and fostered apace the discussion concerning those just deposited there through the motive power of the quadruped under dispute.

“I don’t think Miss Wymer is pretty,” declared a Solon of the rail. “She’s awfully fetching, though.”

“Rather. There’s a something about her you don’t often meet with, and you don’t know what the devil it is, either. By the way, wasn’t old Bracebrydge properly smashed on her?”

“Oh, he’s that on every woman under the sun—in rotation. This one let him have what for, though.”

“Did she? Eh, what about? How was it?” exclaimed several.

“Rather. They were talking about the Mehriâb affair, and Bracebrydge said something sneering about that poor plucky devil, Campian. You know what a blundering, tactless, offensive beast Bracebrydge can be. Well, he said they were all making too much of the affair, and more than hinted that Campian had only done what he did so as to seize the first opportunity of running away later on. Miss Wymer only answered that she thought she knew one or two who wouldn’t have waited for that—they’d have run away at the start. But it was the way she said it, looking him straight in the face all the time. By George, it was great, I can tell you—great. Bracebrydge looked as sick as if he had just been hit in the eye.”

“Serve him jolly well right,” declared one of the listeners, and his opinion was universally seconded, for Bracebrydge was not popular among those who roosted on the railing.

“I think Miss Cheriton’s the prettiest of the two,” said the youth who had first spoken. “She’s one of the most fetching girls I ever saw in my life.”

“Then why don’t you make hay while the sun shines?” rejoined another. “Go and make yourself agreeable—if you can, that is. They’ve just gone into the library. Go and ask her to play tennis, or something, chappie.”

“I think I will.” And sliding from the rail with some alacrity, away he went. Those remaining continued their subject.

“Bracebrydge must have been a double-dyed ass to have hit that particular nail on the head. It’s my belief he couldn’t have hit the wrong one harder, anyway.”

“The devil he couldn’t!”

“Well, I don’t know, mind. Only look at the opportunities they had, thrown almost entirely upon each other up there, for old Jermyn doesn’t count. If they hadn’t altogether set up abundobust, it was most likely only a question of time.”

“MissWymer hasn’t been to a dance since that affair,” struck in another oracle of the rail. “Looks as if there was some fire beneath the smoke. What?”

“That don’t follow, either. Mind you, the chap deliberately went to have his throat cut so that the others should be let go, and while his fate is a matter of uncertainty it is only what a nice girl like that would do to keep a bit quiet. She wouldn’t care to think, while she was frisking about at dances, that at that very moment they might be hacking the poor chap to pieces.”

It so happened that the theory set forth by the last two speakers expressed with very fair accuracy the real state of affairs. Naturally self-contained, and with immense power of control over her feelings, Vivien was able to support the terrible strain of those weeks without—in popular parlance—giving herself away. And it was a strain. Day and night his image was with her, but always as she had seen him last; calmly and cheerfully delivering himself into the merciless hands of these cruel, marauding fanatics, giving his life for her and hers. Of the old days she dared not even think—and, since this tragedy had come between, they seemed so far away. Small wonder, then, if she refrained from joining in the ordinary round of station gaieties, yet not too pointedly, and she was the better able to do this that, being a comparative stranger in the place, her abstention was ascribed to a natural seriousness of temperament. Even thus, however, it could not entirely escape comment, as we have seen.

She and Nesta Cheriton had become great friends, although as different in temperament as in outward characteristics. In public, at any rate, they were generally about together, and in private, too, seemed to see a good deal of each other. It was almost as though they had some bond in common, and yet Vivien never by word or hint let out the ever present subject of her thoughts to any living soul. She had not quite lost hope, but as the days went by and nothing was heard either of the captive, or of the marauding outlaw who held him, she well nigh did lose it. Both seemed to have vanished into empty air.

For the stipulated ransom had been duly paid. Colonel Jermyn, with the aid of Upward and the head forest guard, had met Umar Khan’s envoy—none other than Ihalil Mohammed himself—he who had negotiated the terms. Great was the amazement and disgust of all when told that the prisoner would not be handed over. It was not in thebundobust. Nothing had been said as to the restoration of Campian on payment of the five thousand rupees. The Colonel and Der’ Ali stared at each other in blank dismay, for they recognised that this was only too true. No such stipulation had been made, they remembered. But, of course, it had been understood, they put it to the envoy. That wily Baluchi merely shook his head slightly, and repeated—as impassable as ever, “It was not in thebundobust.”

Then the Colonel raved and swore. It was treachery, black, infernal treachery. He believed they had murdered their prisoner already, at any rate, not onepiceshould they get from him until the sahib was handed over safe and sound. Then they should have everyannaof it. Not before.

At this Ihalil Mohammed merely elevated one shaggy eyebrow, and remarked laconically:

“Sheep are flayed after they are dead,not before.”

The Colonel stared blankly over the apparent inconsequence of this remark, then, as the fiendish import of it dawned upon him, he lost his temper, and nearly his head. His hand flew to his revolver.

This time Ihalil Mohammed elevated two shaggy eyebrows and observed:

“Sheep are flayedand roastedafter they are dead—not before.”

Then he relapsed into his wonted saturnine taciturnity.

The others consulted together. Ihalil seemed hardly interested enough even to watch them. The wily Baluchi knew that the key to the whole situation was in his own hand. He had marked the visible discomfiture produced by his hideous threat. He knew that the stipulated sum would be paid, and that he himself would be suffered to depart with it unmolested—and, indeed, such was the case.

“Is the sahib still alive?” asked the Colonel.

“He is still alive.”

“And well?”

“And well.”

“Very good. Now then, Der’ Ali. Tell this infernal scoundrel to tell his more infernal scoundrel of a chief that if he brings in the sahib safe and well within eight days from, this, and hands him over, we will pay him another five thousand rupees; but if any harm happens to him, then theSirkârwill never rest until he has hung him and every man Jack of the gang—hung ’em in pigskins, by God, and burnt them afterwards. What does he say to that?”

Der’ Ali, being judicious, substituted courteous epithets for the naturally explosive ones which his master had directed at Umar Khan, and Der’ Ali, being a Moslem himself, refrained from repeating in plain terms so shocking a reference as that of which the blunt Feringhi had not scrupled to make use, substituting for it mysterious and sinister hints as to death by hanging under its most dreaded form. Ihalil’s reply was characteristically laconic.

“Well, what does he say?” repeated the Colonel testily.

“He say—he hears,Huzoor.”

“Are they going to bring the sahib back, Der’ Ali?”

“He say—he can’t say,Huzoor,” answered the interpreter, having elicited that terse reply.

“Tell him to go to the devil, then,” said the Colonel, unable to resist an angry stamp of the foot.

Der’ Ali rendered this as—“Go in peace,” and Ihalil, uttering an impassive “Salaam,” mounted his camel, and—did so.

They watched the form of the retreating Baluchi, fast becoming a mere white speck in the desert waste with every stride of his camel, and shook their heads despondently. Would these wolves ever release their prey? Bhallu Khan was of a kindred tribe. What did he think of the chances? But the old forester, who, like most barbarians or semi-barbarians, always answer what they imagine the inquirers would like best to hear, replied that he thought the chances were good. All men loved money—even the sahibs would rather have plenty than little—he interpolated with a whimsical smile. Baluchi loved money too. Umar Khan would probably release his prisoner if plenty of rupees were offered him.

But the eight days became fifteen, and still of the said prisoner there was no sign; and the fortnight grew into weeks, with like result. Then those interested in Campian’s fate felt gloomy indeed. They had almost abandoned hope.

But whatever private woes and trials, the world rubs on as usual. Shâlalai at large was not particularly interested in Campian’s fate, except as an item of political excitement. It was far more interested in the capture or destruction of Umar Khan than in the rescue or murder of his prisoner; for that bold outlaw had set up something of a scare. That sort of outbreak was catching among these fierce, fanatical, predatory races, and it struck home. Shooting parties became decidedly nervous, and fewer withal; and those delightful, moonlight bicycling picnics, miles out along the smooth, level, military road, were given up as unsafe—for did not the Brahui villages dotting the plain on either side contain scowling, shaggy, sword-wearing ruffians in plenty, and was there not a wave of restlessness heaving through the lot?

Fleming was one of those who decided that his own affairs were of paramount importance to himself; wherefore he continued to pay assiduous court to Nesta Cheriton. But the girl seemed to have altered somehow. She had grown quite subdued, not to say serious. The old, gay, sparkling high spirits were seldom there. Fleming, turning things over, shook a gloomy head, then dismissed his fears as absurd. Could it be there was anything between Campian and herself? They had perforce been thrown together a lot in Upward’s camp—moreover, when he and Bracebrydge had left, they had left the other behind them. Had he improved the shining hour then? Fleming recalled thetangiadventure, and swore to himself; but he soon recovered, and the restoration of his equanimity was effected through the agency of his looking-glass. It was too damned absurd, he told himself, surveying his really good-looking face and well-knit soldierly figure—that any girl could prefer a dry old stick like Campian, and a mere civilian at that—so, giving his gallant moustache an additional twist or two eyewards, he concluded to start off and place the matter beyond a doubt.

But on reaching Upward’s bungalow ill chance awaited him. Nesta was not alone, and her mood was unpropitious. What was that? He could hardly believe his ears. She was depreciating—yes, actually depreciating—the British Army.

“I don’t know what is the use of all these soldiers here in Shâlalai,” she was saying as he came in. “Thousands of them. How many are there, Captain Fleming? How many soldiers have we got in Shâlalai?”

“Oh, about five thousand—of all sorts.”

“About five thousand,” she repeated, “horse, foot, and artillery, and yet a dozen ragged Pathâns can race about the country, killing people at will.”

“That everlasting Umar Khan, I suppose?” said Fleming, somewhat shortly, for he was not a little nettled at her disparaging, almost jeering, tone.

“I think heisgoing to be the ‘everlasting’ Umar Khan,” she retorted quickly. “Why don’t some of you try and catch him, Captain Fleming? There are enough of you, at any rate.”

“We must wait for orders, Miss Cheriton,” he replied stiffly.

“If I were a man, and a soldier, I wouldn’t wait for orders if there was anything of that sort to be done,” she retorted, with delightful inconsistency. “I’d get leave to raise a troop, and I’d never rest till I brought in that Ghazi. All our jolly bicycle picnics are knocked on the head, and then Mr Upward has constantly to go into camp, and of course Mrs Upward will insist on going with him, and—I’m very fond of her.”

Fleming, who had been twirling his moustache eyeward somewhat viciously, suddenly quit that refuge for the perturbed. An idea had struck him. By George, it was not merely on Campian’s account she wanted Umar Khan run to earth! Vastly relieved, he said:

“There’s a good deal in what you say, Miss Cheriton. I must think out how the thing may be done.” Then he talked on other and indifferent matters, and shortly took his leave.

Meanwhile the bi-annualjirgeh, or tribal council, was in progress at Shâlalai, and representatives of all the tribes and clans and septs gathered daily in the durbar hall to meet theSirkârand ventilate grievances and settle disputes, and in short to discuss matters generally between themselves and the Executive. Stately chiefs and their retinues—tall, dignified men, picturesque in their snowy turbans and long hair and flowing beards, wending thither beneath the plane-shaded avenue—passed in strange contrast the dapper sub skimming along on his bicycle, or fashionably attired ladies in their high-wheeled dogcart flashing by at a hard trot, bound for club or gymkhana ground. Such, however, they eyed as impassively as they did the crowd of low caste Hindus which thronged the bazaar; for the training of their wild desert home had left no room for the display of emotions. Now and then, recognising some official, they might utter a grave “Salaam,” accompanied by a slight raising of the hand, but that was all. A contrast indeed! The unchanging East, in its melancholy dignity and fund of awe-suggesting power—because power held in the mystery of reserve—jostled by fussy, domineering, up-to-date civilisation; the fierce, wild, untamable spirits masked by those copper-hued and dignified countenances, side by side with the careless, pleasure loving, yet intensely pushing and practical temperament underlying the fresh, tawny-haired Anglo-Saxon faces. Even the very headgear suggested a vivid contrast—the multitudinous folds of the snowy and graceful turban expressive of absence of all capacity for flurry—cool deliberateness, repose, wisdom—even as the cock of the perky “bowler” seemed a very object lesson in itself of push and bounce and “there-to-stay” tenacity.

Now and then one or two of the sirdars would visit Upward to talk officially on forest matters in their respective districts, or to view his multifold trophies of the chase, which keenly interested them. These visits Upward encouraged, hoping to learn something of Campian’s fate. But it was of no avail. Of the massacre at Mehriâb station, and the doings of Umar Khan in general, the wily Asiatics professed the profoundest ignorance, not with effusive reiteration, but in a grave, nonchalant, dignified way, as though the matter were entirely unworthy of their notice or cognisance, once and for all. But to Vivien Wymer, who never lost an opportunity of studying these people, such visits were of untold interest; moreover, they seemed to result in a certain degree of hope renewed. These stately, courteous-mannered potentates had not got cruel faces. There was a noble look about most of them, even a benevolent one. Surely these were not the men to sanction a coldblooded murder.

Meanwhile, during thejirgeh, the matter of Umar Khan was receiving the full attention of the Executive. It was one thing for the chiefs to protest ignorance in private and unofficial conversation with Upward, with whom, diplomatically, they had no earthly concern. Carefully and with due deliberation the authorities narrowed the net—and it was decided to arrest Yar Hussain Khan, who, as the outlaw’s feudal chief, was responsible for his behaviour—and a sirdar of the Brahuis who was proved to have sheltered and screened him.

The chiefs in question made no trouble over the decision of theSirkâr. With Oriental impassibility they accepted the situation, and were placed under guard accordingly. But two nights later Umar Khan swooped down upon a Levy post within ten miles of Shâlalai, surprised and massacred the handful of Hindu sepoys in charge, and rolled a couple of field pieces down the mountain side, retiring as swiftly as he had appeared: while the Brahui clans in the neighbourhood began to make themselves disagreeable by various small acts of aggression which rendered it unsafe to venture many miles beyond the lines.

Things began to look uncommonly lively in and about that station containing five thousand troops—horse, foot and artillery.

Chapter Twenty.At Darkest Hour.Away in the Kharawan desert the dust columns are whirling heavenward in many a tall spiral shaft; more like the hissing steam jets of some vast geyser than anything so dry and unadhesible as mere sand.A dead flat level, stretching afar into misty distance on the skyline on every hand—its only vegetation a low scrubby attempt at growth; the fierce sun at a white heat overhead; the sky as brass—what life can this awful wilderness by any possibility support? Yet so wonderful, so inexhaustible are the resources of Nature that even here both man and beast can fare along, and that moderately well.Camels, with their loads, kneel on the sand, resting from their labours; with their ugly heads and weird snaky necks and unceasing guttural snarling roar, conveying the idea of hideous antediluvian monsters somehow or other forgotten by the Flood in this desert waste. A flock of black goats, cropping daintily at the sparse attempt at herbage, or crouching in groups chewing the cud, represents the other phase of animal life there, unless three or four gaunt Pathân curs employed at assisting to herd the same. Here and there a tent, or mere shelter of tanned camel hide, blackened by the heat of innumerable suns, stretched upon poles, affords a modicum of shelter from the arid baking heat.It is the hour of prayer. Grouped together the believers are kneeling—facing towards the holy city; whose exact direction they have a marvellous faculty for determining with accuracy. As one man they sink down in their twofold prostration, forehead to the earth, then rise again, and the droning hum of voices goes out upon the shimmer of the scorching air. One, in front of the rest, leads the devotions, a little, shrunken, aged figure, and by his side is another, but it is the form of a man in all the vigour of his prime.With more than ordinary unction the prescribed formulae are repeated. No abstraction or looking round is here, such as the faithful when individually devout may occasionally give way to. Perhaps it is the holy character and reputation of the leader that ensures this edifying result, for the Syyed Hadji Aïn Asrâf is justly invested with both of these.He who prays side by side with this pillar and prop of Moslem orthodoxy is arrayed like the rest. His white turban, cool and voluminous in its folds, is the same as that of these swarthy copper-hued sons of the desert—so, too, are the graceful flowing garments and chudda, in which he is clad. His shoes are off his feet, and his prostrations and general attitude differ in no wise from those employed by the other devotees—the outcome of a lifetime’s habit. Yet, as the orisons over, all rise and resume their shoes and their wonted and work-a-day demeanour, a close observer might well notice that this is no fanatical son of the Orient but a man of Anglo-Saxon blood—in short, none other than Howard Campian.How then is it that the part has come to him so easily? He had professed Islam, it is true; but that as a mere expedient to save himself from the murderous blades of Umar Khan and his followers. Yet it is strange how the varying phases of life will unconsciously affect the man who is accustomed to pass through many of them. Your wooden headed, groove-compressed John Bull, in his stay-at-home, stick-in-the-mud-ishness, is impervious to any such impressions. He is too devoid of sympathy for the ideas of any other living soul, for one thing. But the true cosmopolitan, the globe wanderer, whose wanderings leave him more and more with an open mind, can see things differently, can even realise that the multifold races and tongues and creeds who inhabit this earth do not necessarily do so on gracious sufferance of John Bull aforesaid, with whom, by the way, they have not the shadow of an idea in common. It happened that Campian had some acquaintance with the Korân, in fact possessed an English translation of the sacred volume; a circumstance which stood him in right good stead with those who held him in durance. The faith of Islam had always struck him as a rational creed, moral and orderly, with the claims of a fair amount of antiquity behind it; wherefore now, under duress and as a matter of expediency, no great shock was entailed upon him in subscribing its tenets. Besides, his profession of faith involved no denial of any article of faith he might previously have held. The assertion that Mohammed was the prophet of God seemed not an outrageous one, looking at the fact that the stupendous creed, founded or revealed by the seer of Mecca, held and swayed countless millions, who for sheer devoutness, consistency to their own profession, and the grandeur of unity, could give large points to the cute, up-to-date Christian with his one day’s piety and six days’ fraud, and his jangling discord of multifold sects.He was a good bit of a natural actor, wherefore, having a part to play, he identified himself with it, and played it thoroughly. Partly from motives of convenience, for his own clothing had undergone wild, rough treatment of late, partly from those of expediency, he had adopted the dress of his custodians, and his dark, sunbrowned face, clear cut features and full beard, framed in the white voluminous turban, was quite as the face of one of themselves. Only the eyes seemed to betray the Anglo-Saxon, yet blue or grey eyes are not uncommon among some of the Afghan tribes.It is by no means certain that his profession of faith would have availed to save his life at the rancorous hands of Umar Khan—that lawless freebooter being impatient of the claims of creed when they conflicted with his own strong inclinations—but for the interference of the Syyed Aïn Asrâf. The dictum of the latter, however, especially in a matter of faith, was not to be gainsaid. Not by halves, either, had the Syyed done things. He rejoiced over his new convert, insuring for him good treatment, and, in short, everything but liberty. We have just stated that Campian possessed a translation of the Korân, and the fact that he did so seemed a mark to all that his was no sudden forced conversion. He had evidently been making a study of their holy religion, as the Syyed pointed out.To this lead Campian assiduously played up. The volume was at the bungalow of the Colonel Sahib, where he had been staying, he explained, and thither he prevailed on them to accompany him, in order to fetch it. Nor was that all, for he made use of the circumstance to prevail upon them to spare the house, as having contained a volume of the sacred book, and under whose roof had come many inspirations which had led to his conversion. They had looted the place somewhat, but had refrained from doing much real damage.The Syyed Aïn Asrâf then, had taken his proselyte completely under his wing, and, through the interpreting agency of Buktiar Khan, was never tired of instructing him in all the tenets and rules and discipline of Islam. This was not altogether unwelcome to the said proselyte, and that for diverse reasons. For one thing the subject really interested him, and greatly did it beguile the tedium and hardship of his captivity: for another he was anxious to establish the friendliest relationship with the old Syyed. The name had recalled itself to his recollection the moment he heard it uttered. This was the other name mentioned in connection with the treasure and the ruby sword—Syyed Aïn Asrâf, the brother of the fugitive Durani chief, Dost Hussain Khan.Did this old man know? Was he in the secret, or had all clue been lost? Again, did that mysterious chest, so startlingly, so grimly lighted upon by himself, actually contain that rare and priceless treasure? Often would Campian’s thoughts go back to those awful hours spent hanging over the black depths of the chasm. Often would he wonder whether the discovery was an actual fact, or a dream, a phantasmagoria of his state of over-wrought mind and body, and in the hot glare of the desert he would shade his eyes as though the better to live over again those hours of horror and of pitchy gloom. But when he would have liked to sound the old Syyed on the subject, that curse, the barrier of language, would come in. Save for a smattering of the most ordinary words, which he had picked up, Campian could only communicate through the agency of Buktiar Khan, and Buktiar Khan was at best but a slippery scoundrel, and totally untrustworthy where a matter of such passing importance was involved.Campian had long since given up his first idea, viz: that he was being held as a hostage, to be released on payment of the stipulated five thousand rupees. That sum he knew had been paid, duly as to time and conditions, but to his representations that he should be set at liberty the reply was consistently short and to the point. It was not in thebundobust. So he made up his mind to bide his time patiently, keep his eyes and ears open, pick up as much of the language as he could, and pursue his studies of the Korân under the tuition of his now spiritual guide, Aïn Asrâf.That venerable saint found in him a most promising neophyte—and through the agency of the ex-chuprassi they would hold long theological debates on this or that point of faith, or the exact interpretation of the words of the Prophet, wherein the Moslem doctors were wont to read diverse or ambiguous meaning; and the cheap and spick and span English translation formed yet one more of those strange life contrasts beside the yellow parchment scroll covered with its Arabic text—while the Syyed, with the aid of pebbles placed out, or squares and circles described in the dust, strove to convey to his disciple some idea of the configuration of the holy city and the inviolable temple; the sacred Caaba and the stone of Abraham.Strange and wild had been Campian’s experiences during the long weeks—months now—since his recapture. His jauntily-expressed self gratulation on the prospect of seeing something of the inner life of the Baluchis he can remember now with a rueful smile. Hurried here and hurried there—now freezing among bleak mountain-tops, now roasting on the waterless desert: subsisting on food perfectly abominable to civilised palate, and housed in low square huts, the nocturnal gambols of whose multifold tenantry tried his as yet scanty stock of Moslem patience—in truth he has had enough and to spare of such experiences. So interminable and tortuous withal have been his wanderings that at the present moment he has not the least idea as to his whereabouts, or whether Shâlalai is north, south, east, or west, or far or near—or indeed anything about it. One redeeming point about the situation is that after the first week of his captivity nothing more has been seen of Umar Khan. That obnoxious ruffian had disappeared as effectually as though death or his own free will had severed his connection with the band.With the additional security the absence of the arch-brigand brought to him, there came fits of terrible depression. What was going to be the end of all this, and whither did they purpose to convey him? Northward, to wild untrodden regions of Afghanistan or Persia when the band should find it expedient to flee thither—and, what then? Sooner or later the enmity of Umar Khan would take effect in his murder, secret or open. And he was so helpless, for though, as we have said, he had adopted their costume as well as their creed, and was suffered to go out and in among them at will, never by any chance did his custodians allow him aught in the shape of a weapon.And now, as we see him here in the heart of the Kharawan desert, after the hour of prayer, the old Syyed for the twentieth time and with unswerving patience and copious diagram is explaining the exact position of the stone of Abraham and its distance from the holy Caaba, he makes up his mind to try and break the ice.“Ask the Syyed, Buktiar,” he says, “who was the Sirdar Dost Hussain Khan?”But before the ex-chuprassi can put the question, a light dawns over the aged face. As the question is put it deepens and glows.“Ya—Allah!” he responds, raising hands and eyes heavenward. “His soul is in the rim of Paradise, my son. Yet, what knowest thou of Dost Hussain Khan?”Campian debated a moment or so what reply to make. There was nothing suspicious about this, for Orientals are never in a hurry. But he was spared the necessity of replying at all, for a diversion occurred which threw the camp into a state of wild excitement.Away on the skyline a cloud of dust was rising. Onward it swept at a great rate of speed, whirling heavenward; and through it the tossing of horses’ heads, and the white turbans of their riders.The dust cloud whirled over them. Recovering from the momentary blindness of its effect, Campian beheld a score and a half of wild Baluchis dashing up on horseback. A dozen of these had leaped from their steeds, and—yes—they were coming straight for him. He had no weapon, yet in that flash of time he noticed that not a tulwar was drawn. They flung themselves upon him, bore him to the earth by sheer weight of numbers, and in a trice he was powerless, bound fast in a cruelly painful attitude, being in fact trussed up in such wise as to be brought as nearly into the shape of a huge ball as the human frame is capable of being brought. Nor was this all. They rammed a gag into his mouth—a horrible gag composed of a wedge of wood covered with very dirty rag—and in this plight he was hauled to one of the kneeling camels, and, literally turned into a bale by being wrapped in sacking, was loaded up among the other packages upon the animal’s back.The agony of it was excruciating. Every bone in his body ached with the distortion of the enforced and unwonted attitude. The rack would have been a joke to it. Moreover, what with the filthy gag, and the sacking which covered him, he was more than half suffocated. Flames danced and reeled before his eyes—his brain was bursting. Then a couple of sickening lurches and jolt—jolt—jolt. The roaring, snarling animal had risen and was proceeding at its ordinary pace—and now, in addition to the torture of his strained attitude, the jolting impact of the other packages seemed in danger of crushing the life out of him against the pack saddle.Wherefore this outrage? A moment before, free, comparatively almost one of themselves, and now—What was the meaning of this abominable treatment?Ha! What was that? The trampling of horses—the rush of many hoofs—nearer and nearer. Now it was thundering around—and racked, suffocated, half dead, in his agonising and ignominious position, the blood rushed tingling through the unfortunate man’s frame, for over and above the sudden tumult rose a loud English voice. Rescue at last! In his sore and painful plight, he nearly fainted with the revulsion of the thought.“Tell the devils to stop,” it cried. “Now, Sohrâb, ask them who they are, and all about themselves.”And he who listened there helpless, recognised the fresh, bluff voice. It was that of his quondam camp-mate—Fleming. If only he could make his presence known—but that noisome gag rendered all sound as impossible as his bonds rendered movement. He heard the question put by the Baluchi interpreter, likewise the long-winded reply. Then another English voice—an impatient one.“I believe we’d better push on, Fleming. These devils’ll take half the day jawing here. I’m dead certain that was Umar Khan himself in that crowd just now, and they’ll have nearly half an hour’s start of us. Let’s get on, say I.”“I don’t know quite what to do, Sinclair,” said the first voice. “I’ve a good mind to overhaul these chaps’ loads. There might be some clue in them—some bit of loot perhaps—which might be a guide to us.”Heavens! How the wretched prisoner strained and tugged at his bonds. If he could but loosen that diabolical gag ever so slightly! He could see in imagination the whole scene—the two English officers at the head of their native troopers; the sullen, scowling Baluchis standing by their camels hardly deigning to do more than barely answer the questions put to them; then the impatience of the subaltern shading his eyes to gaze horizon-ward—and the more cautious, reflective countenance of the captain. Yes, he could see it all. Rescue, within a yard of him! Great God! was it to reach him—to touch him, and yet pass him by? He strained at his bonds till his eyes seemed to burst from his head. One sound would bring him immediate rescue, immediate freedom—yet not by a hair’s-breadth would that devilish gag relax its constraint.“Pho! What could we find that would help us?” rejoined the impatient voice of the subaltern. “And every moment Umar Khan is putting another mile of this infernal desert between him and us.”The argument seemed to weigh. The sharp, crisp word to advance—the rattle of sabres and the jingle of bits; the thud of the troop-horses’ feet, and the swish of the thrown-up sand—all told its own tale to the ears of the wretched prisoner as the troop swept onward, literally within a couple of yards of him, and soon died away. Then the renewed jolt—jolt, told that the camels had resumed their interrupted march. It was the last straw. Physical anguish and mental revulsion proved too much. The unfortunate man lost all consciousness in a dead swoon.

Away in the Kharawan desert the dust columns are whirling heavenward in many a tall spiral shaft; more like the hissing steam jets of some vast geyser than anything so dry and unadhesible as mere sand.

A dead flat level, stretching afar into misty distance on the skyline on every hand—its only vegetation a low scrubby attempt at growth; the fierce sun at a white heat overhead; the sky as brass—what life can this awful wilderness by any possibility support? Yet so wonderful, so inexhaustible are the resources of Nature that even here both man and beast can fare along, and that moderately well.

Camels, with their loads, kneel on the sand, resting from their labours; with their ugly heads and weird snaky necks and unceasing guttural snarling roar, conveying the idea of hideous antediluvian monsters somehow or other forgotten by the Flood in this desert waste. A flock of black goats, cropping daintily at the sparse attempt at herbage, or crouching in groups chewing the cud, represents the other phase of animal life there, unless three or four gaunt Pathân curs employed at assisting to herd the same. Here and there a tent, or mere shelter of tanned camel hide, blackened by the heat of innumerable suns, stretched upon poles, affords a modicum of shelter from the arid baking heat.

It is the hour of prayer. Grouped together the believers are kneeling—facing towards the holy city; whose exact direction they have a marvellous faculty for determining with accuracy. As one man they sink down in their twofold prostration, forehead to the earth, then rise again, and the droning hum of voices goes out upon the shimmer of the scorching air. One, in front of the rest, leads the devotions, a little, shrunken, aged figure, and by his side is another, but it is the form of a man in all the vigour of his prime.

With more than ordinary unction the prescribed formulae are repeated. No abstraction or looking round is here, such as the faithful when individually devout may occasionally give way to. Perhaps it is the holy character and reputation of the leader that ensures this edifying result, for the Syyed Hadji Aïn Asrâf is justly invested with both of these.

He who prays side by side with this pillar and prop of Moslem orthodoxy is arrayed like the rest. His white turban, cool and voluminous in its folds, is the same as that of these swarthy copper-hued sons of the desert—so, too, are the graceful flowing garments and chudda, in which he is clad. His shoes are off his feet, and his prostrations and general attitude differ in no wise from those employed by the other devotees—the outcome of a lifetime’s habit. Yet, as the orisons over, all rise and resume their shoes and their wonted and work-a-day demeanour, a close observer might well notice that this is no fanatical son of the Orient but a man of Anglo-Saxon blood—in short, none other than Howard Campian.

How then is it that the part has come to him so easily? He had professed Islam, it is true; but that as a mere expedient to save himself from the murderous blades of Umar Khan and his followers. Yet it is strange how the varying phases of life will unconsciously affect the man who is accustomed to pass through many of them. Your wooden headed, groove-compressed John Bull, in his stay-at-home, stick-in-the-mud-ishness, is impervious to any such impressions. He is too devoid of sympathy for the ideas of any other living soul, for one thing. But the true cosmopolitan, the globe wanderer, whose wanderings leave him more and more with an open mind, can see things differently, can even realise that the multifold races and tongues and creeds who inhabit this earth do not necessarily do so on gracious sufferance of John Bull aforesaid, with whom, by the way, they have not the shadow of an idea in common. It happened that Campian had some acquaintance with the Korân, in fact possessed an English translation of the sacred volume; a circumstance which stood him in right good stead with those who held him in durance. The faith of Islam had always struck him as a rational creed, moral and orderly, with the claims of a fair amount of antiquity behind it; wherefore now, under duress and as a matter of expediency, no great shock was entailed upon him in subscribing its tenets. Besides, his profession of faith involved no denial of any article of faith he might previously have held. The assertion that Mohammed was the prophet of God seemed not an outrageous one, looking at the fact that the stupendous creed, founded or revealed by the seer of Mecca, held and swayed countless millions, who for sheer devoutness, consistency to their own profession, and the grandeur of unity, could give large points to the cute, up-to-date Christian with his one day’s piety and six days’ fraud, and his jangling discord of multifold sects.

He was a good bit of a natural actor, wherefore, having a part to play, he identified himself with it, and played it thoroughly. Partly from motives of convenience, for his own clothing had undergone wild, rough treatment of late, partly from those of expediency, he had adopted the dress of his custodians, and his dark, sunbrowned face, clear cut features and full beard, framed in the white voluminous turban, was quite as the face of one of themselves. Only the eyes seemed to betray the Anglo-Saxon, yet blue or grey eyes are not uncommon among some of the Afghan tribes.

It is by no means certain that his profession of faith would have availed to save his life at the rancorous hands of Umar Khan—that lawless freebooter being impatient of the claims of creed when they conflicted with his own strong inclinations—but for the interference of the Syyed Aïn Asrâf. The dictum of the latter, however, especially in a matter of faith, was not to be gainsaid. Not by halves, either, had the Syyed done things. He rejoiced over his new convert, insuring for him good treatment, and, in short, everything but liberty. We have just stated that Campian possessed a translation of the Korân, and the fact that he did so seemed a mark to all that his was no sudden forced conversion. He had evidently been making a study of their holy religion, as the Syyed pointed out.

To this lead Campian assiduously played up. The volume was at the bungalow of the Colonel Sahib, where he had been staying, he explained, and thither he prevailed on them to accompany him, in order to fetch it. Nor was that all, for he made use of the circumstance to prevail upon them to spare the house, as having contained a volume of the sacred book, and under whose roof had come many inspirations which had led to his conversion. They had looted the place somewhat, but had refrained from doing much real damage.

The Syyed Aïn Asrâf then, had taken his proselyte completely under his wing, and, through the interpreting agency of Buktiar Khan, was never tired of instructing him in all the tenets and rules and discipline of Islam. This was not altogether unwelcome to the said proselyte, and that for diverse reasons. For one thing the subject really interested him, and greatly did it beguile the tedium and hardship of his captivity: for another he was anxious to establish the friendliest relationship with the old Syyed. The name had recalled itself to his recollection the moment he heard it uttered. This was the other name mentioned in connection with the treasure and the ruby sword—Syyed Aïn Asrâf, the brother of the fugitive Durani chief, Dost Hussain Khan.

Did this old man know? Was he in the secret, or had all clue been lost? Again, did that mysterious chest, so startlingly, so grimly lighted upon by himself, actually contain that rare and priceless treasure? Often would Campian’s thoughts go back to those awful hours spent hanging over the black depths of the chasm. Often would he wonder whether the discovery was an actual fact, or a dream, a phantasmagoria of his state of over-wrought mind and body, and in the hot glare of the desert he would shade his eyes as though the better to live over again those hours of horror and of pitchy gloom. But when he would have liked to sound the old Syyed on the subject, that curse, the barrier of language, would come in. Save for a smattering of the most ordinary words, which he had picked up, Campian could only communicate through the agency of Buktiar Khan, and Buktiar Khan was at best but a slippery scoundrel, and totally untrustworthy where a matter of such passing importance was involved.

Campian had long since given up his first idea, viz: that he was being held as a hostage, to be released on payment of the stipulated five thousand rupees. That sum he knew had been paid, duly as to time and conditions, but to his representations that he should be set at liberty the reply was consistently short and to the point. It was not in thebundobust. So he made up his mind to bide his time patiently, keep his eyes and ears open, pick up as much of the language as he could, and pursue his studies of the Korân under the tuition of his now spiritual guide, Aïn Asrâf.

That venerable saint found in him a most promising neophyte—and through the agency of the ex-chuprassi they would hold long theological debates on this or that point of faith, or the exact interpretation of the words of the Prophet, wherein the Moslem doctors were wont to read diverse or ambiguous meaning; and the cheap and spick and span English translation formed yet one more of those strange life contrasts beside the yellow parchment scroll covered with its Arabic text—while the Syyed, with the aid of pebbles placed out, or squares and circles described in the dust, strove to convey to his disciple some idea of the configuration of the holy city and the inviolable temple; the sacred Caaba and the stone of Abraham.

Strange and wild had been Campian’s experiences during the long weeks—months now—since his recapture. His jauntily-expressed self gratulation on the prospect of seeing something of the inner life of the Baluchis he can remember now with a rueful smile. Hurried here and hurried there—now freezing among bleak mountain-tops, now roasting on the waterless desert: subsisting on food perfectly abominable to civilised palate, and housed in low square huts, the nocturnal gambols of whose multifold tenantry tried his as yet scanty stock of Moslem patience—in truth he has had enough and to spare of such experiences. So interminable and tortuous withal have been his wanderings that at the present moment he has not the least idea as to his whereabouts, or whether Shâlalai is north, south, east, or west, or far or near—or indeed anything about it. One redeeming point about the situation is that after the first week of his captivity nothing more has been seen of Umar Khan. That obnoxious ruffian had disappeared as effectually as though death or his own free will had severed his connection with the band.

With the additional security the absence of the arch-brigand brought to him, there came fits of terrible depression. What was going to be the end of all this, and whither did they purpose to convey him? Northward, to wild untrodden regions of Afghanistan or Persia when the band should find it expedient to flee thither—and, what then? Sooner or later the enmity of Umar Khan would take effect in his murder, secret or open. And he was so helpless, for though, as we have said, he had adopted their costume as well as their creed, and was suffered to go out and in among them at will, never by any chance did his custodians allow him aught in the shape of a weapon.

And now, as we see him here in the heart of the Kharawan desert, after the hour of prayer, the old Syyed for the twentieth time and with unswerving patience and copious diagram is explaining the exact position of the stone of Abraham and its distance from the holy Caaba, he makes up his mind to try and break the ice.

“Ask the Syyed, Buktiar,” he says, “who was the Sirdar Dost Hussain Khan?”

But before the ex-chuprassi can put the question, a light dawns over the aged face. As the question is put it deepens and glows.

“Ya—Allah!” he responds, raising hands and eyes heavenward. “His soul is in the rim of Paradise, my son. Yet, what knowest thou of Dost Hussain Khan?”

Campian debated a moment or so what reply to make. There was nothing suspicious about this, for Orientals are never in a hurry. But he was spared the necessity of replying at all, for a diversion occurred which threw the camp into a state of wild excitement.

Away on the skyline a cloud of dust was rising. Onward it swept at a great rate of speed, whirling heavenward; and through it the tossing of horses’ heads, and the white turbans of their riders.

The dust cloud whirled over them. Recovering from the momentary blindness of its effect, Campian beheld a score and a half of wild Baluchis dashing up on horseback. A dozen of these had leaped from their steeds, and—yes—they were coming straight for him. He had no weapon, yet in that flash of time he noticed that not a tulwar was drawn. They flung themselves upon him, bore him to the earth by sheer weight of numbers, and in a trice he was powerless, bound fast in a cruelly painful attitude, being in fact trussed up in such wise as to be brought as nearly into the shape of a huge ball as the human frame is capable of being brought. Nor was this all. They rammed a gag into his mouth—a horrible gag composed of a wedge of wood covered with very dirty rag—and in this plight he was hauled to one of the kneeling camels, and, literally turned into a bale by being wrapped in sacking, was loaded up among the other packages upon the animal’s back.

The agony of it was excruciating. Every bone in his body ached with the distortion of the enforced and unwonted attitude. The rack would have been a joke to it. Moreover, what with the filthy gag, and the sacking which covered him, he was more than half suffocated. Flames danced and reeled before his eyes—his brain was bursting. Then a couple of sickening lurches and jolt—jolt—jolt. The roaring, snarling animal had risen and was proceeding at its ordinary pace—and now, in addition to the torture of his strained attitude, the jolting impact of the other packages seemed in danger of crushing the life out of him against the pack saddle.

Wherefore this outrage? A moment before, free, comparatively almost one of themselves, and now—What was the meaning of this abominable treatment?

Ha! What was that? The trampling of horses—the rush of many hoofs—nearer and nearer. Now it was thundering around—and racked, suffocated, half dead, in his agonising and ignominious position, the blood rushed tingling through the unfortunate man’s frame, for over and above the sudden tumult rose a loud English voice. Rescue at last! In his sore and painful plight, he nearly fainted with the revulsion of the thought.

“Tell the devils to stop,” it cried. “Now, Sohrâb, ask them who they are, and all about themselves.”

And he who listened there helpless, recognised the fresh, bluff voice. It was that of his quondam camp-mate—Fleming. If only he could make his presence known—but that noisome gag rendered all sound as impossible as his bonds rendered movement. He heard the question put by the Baluchi interpreter, likewise the long-winded reply. Then another English voice—an impatient one.

“I believe we’d better push on, Fleming. These devils’ll take half the day jawing here. I’m dead certain that was Umar Khan himself in that crowd just now, and they’ll have nearly half an hour’s start of us. Let’s get on, say I.”

“I don’t know quite what to do, Sinclair,” said the first voice. “I’ve a good mind to overhaul these chaps’ loads. There might be some clue in them—some bit of loot perhaps—which might be a guide to us.”

Heavens! How the wretched prisoner strained and tugged at his bonds. If he could but loosen that diabolical gag ever so slightly! He could see in imagination the whole scene—the two English officers at the head of their native troopers; the sullen, scowling Baluchis standing by their camels hardly deigning to do more than barely answer the questions put to them; then the impatience of the subaltern shading his eyes to gaze horizon-ward—and the more cautious, reflective countenance of the captain. Yes, he could see it all. Rescue, within a yard of him! Great God! was it to reach him—to touch him, and yet pass him by? He strained at his bonds till his eyes seemed to burst from his head. One sound would bring him immediate rescue, immediate freedom—yet not by a hair’s-breadth would that devilish gag relax its constraint.

“Pho! What could we find that would help us?” rejoined the impatient voice of the subaltern. “And every moment Umar Khan is putting another mile of this infernal desert between him and us.”

The argument seemed to weigh. The sharp, crisp word to advance—the rattle of sabres and the jingle of bits; the thud of the troop-horses’ feet, and the swish of the thrown-up sand—all told its own tale to the ears of the wretched prisoner as the troop swept onward, literally within a couple of yards of him, and soon died away. Then the renewed jolt—jolt, told that the camels had resumed their interrupted march. It was the last straw. Physical anguish and mental revulsion proved too much. The unfortunate man lost all consciousness in a dead swoon.

Chapter Twenty One.The Durani Ring.When he awoke to consciousness Campian realised that he was lying on a charpoy, within a low, mud-plastered room.His limbs were no longer bound, but his whole frame ached from head to foot with a racking pain. With the first attempt to move he groaned, and once more closed his eyes. That last fearful ordeal had been too much for nerve and brain. Even now, as he awoke, the recollection of it came back with a rush.A slight rustling and the sound of a quiet footstep caused him to look forth once more. A bearded, long-haired Baluchi was standing beside the bed with an earthen bowl in his hand.“Kaha Syyed Aïn Asrâf hai?” queried Campian.But the man only shook his head, set down the bowl, and departed.He drank the contents, which consisted of slightly curdled goat’s milk, and feeling vastly better, made up his mind to rise.The turban he had before worn was lying beside him. Twisting it on, he sallied forth.The sun was sky high, but the air was no longer the scorching breath of the desert. It was fresh, almost cool. As he looked around he could see the towering head of a mountain beyond the line of roof.A sort of labyrinth of mud-walls confronted and puzzled him, but of inhabitants he saw not a soul. Making his way carefully forward he came upon an open space, but walled in all round; in fact, he seemed to be in a kind of walled village, and of the surrounding country nothing could he descry but the mountain overhead.Several savage looking Baluchis stood or squatted in groups. These muttered a sulky “salaam,” but their faces were all strange to him; not one among them seemed to have been of the party amid which his lot had formerly been cast. Women, too, here and there were visible—that is to say, their clothing was, for their closely drawn chuddas, with the two circular, barred eyeholes, conveyed to the spectator no sort of idea as to whether the face within was young or old, pretty or hideous, comely or hag-like.Again he inquired for the old Syyed, only to meet with the same unconcerned headshake. The mention of Buktiar Khan met with no more satisfactory result. This was bad. The cross-eyed ex-chuprassi, slippery scoundrel as he might be, was, at any rate, somebody to talk to, and, furthermore, a valuable mouthpiece. For the kind-hearted old Syyed he had conceived a genuine regard, and it was with something like a real pang of regret that he missed the benevolent face and paternal manner of that venerable saint. But, more important than all, he missed the feeling of protection and security which the latter’s presence had inspired, and which, he realised with a qualm, he might only too soon need; for a more forbidding, murderous looking set of ruffians than the men who inhabited this village he thought he had never in his life beheld.Two of these, engaged in their devotions, on one side of the square, attracted his attention. Moved by a desire to propitiate, he went over to them, and putting off his shoes, spread his chudda beside them and began to do likewise. And now, for the first time—realising his insecurity, and missing the presence of his kind old preceptor—in his strait and loneliness, a kind of reality seemed to come into the formula; and bowing himself down towards Mecca, he felt that this creed which unified the hearts of millions and millions might even be ordered so as to form a link of brotherhood between himself and the fierce hearts of those surrounding him—and, let it come from whatever source it might, the inspiration was a sustaining one. He arose with renewed confidence—even something of renewed hope.Such, however, was not destined to last. As the days went by the demeanour of those around grew more and more hostile—at times even threatening. They would hardly reply to his civil and brotherly “salaam,” and would scowl evilly at him even during prayer. It began to get upon his nerves.And well it might. In the first place he was a close prisoner, never being suffered to go outside the loop-holed walls, and the want of exercise told upon his health. Then, he had no idea as to where he was, or for what purpose he was being kept: that it was with the object of ransom he had more than begun to abandon hope, since the weeks had dragged into months, and yet no sign from the outside world. Into months—for there were signs of approaching winter now. The peak of the overhanging mountain took on more than one cap of powdery snow, and the air, at nights, became piercingly cold. And then with the growing hostility of those around, he framed a theory that they were but awaiting the return of Umar Khan to put him to death, with such adjuncts of cruelty as that implacable barbarian might feel moved to devise.Would his fate ever be known? Why should it? Orientals were as close as death when they chose to keep anything a mystery. But what mattered whether it were known or not? Vivien? She would soon forget—or find some “duty” to console her, he told himself in all the bitterness fostered by his unnerved and strained state. No—but of her he would not think; and this resolve, framed from the earliest stage of his captivity, he had persistently observed. He needed all his strength, all his philosophy. To dwell upon thoughts of her—only regained in order to be re-lost—had a perilous tendency to sap both.All manner of wild ideas of escape would come to him, only to be dismissed. He had made one attempt, and failed. If that had been unsuccessful—near home, so to say, and in country he knew—what sort of success would crown any such effort here in a wild and unknown region, which, for aught he knew, might be hundreds of miles from any European centre? To fail again would render his condition infinitely worse, even if it did not entail his death.At last something occurred. It was just after the hour of morning prayer. A sound struck full upon his ears. Away over the desert it came—the long cracking roll of a rifle volley. Then another, followed by a few scattered and dropping shots. Others had heard it, too, and were peering through the loopholes in the outer wall. Faint and far it was, but approaching—oh, yes, surely approaching.Rescue? Surely this time it was. A clue to his whereabouts had been found, and the search expedition had discovered him at last. The blood surged hotly in his veins at the thought—but—with it came another. Would these barbarians allow him to leave their midst alive? Not likely.Then a plan formulated itself in his mind. He would retire to the room he occupied and barricade the door. That would allow his deliverers time to appear in force. So far, however, the people within the village fort made no hostile movement towards him. They seemed to have forgotten his presence, so engrossed were they in observing what might be going on outside. At last, however, the gates were thrown open to admit three men on camels, supporting a fourth. Him they lowered carefully to the ground, a fresh stream of blood welling forth from his wounds as they did so, crimsoning his dirty white garments; and, in the grim, drawn countenance, with its set teeth and glazing eyes, Campian recognised the lineaments of Ihalil Mohammed.The man was dying. Nothing but the tenacity of a son of the desert and the mountain would have supported him thus far, with two Lee-Metford bullets through his vitals. There he lay, however, the sands of life ebbing fast, the very moments of his fierce, lawless, predatory career numbered.“You take care. Baluchi very cross,” murmured a voice, in English, at Campian’s side. No need had he to turn to recognise in it that of Buktiar Khan.The warning was needed—yet even then, fully alive to his peril, he could not forbear hurriedly asking what had happened. As hurriedly the ex-chuprassi told him; which he was able to do while loosening the saddle girths of his camel, the attention of the others, too, being occupied with the dying man. A body of native horse led by two English officers had come up to a neighbouring village, but themalikwho ruled it had refused to allow them the use of the wells. The cavalry had persisted, and then the Baluchis had fired upon them. There had been a fight, and then a parley, and the English officers had set off in pursuit of Umar Khan, who had been present until he saw how things were going with his countrymen.“No. The sahibs not come here. Umar Khan go right the other way,” concluded Buktiar. “But—you take care—Baluchi very cross.”If ever there was point in a warning it was at that moment. Several of those around Ihalil turned their heads and were eyeing the prisoner ominously. The dying brigand, too, with hate in his glassy stare, seemed to be muttering curses and menace, then with a last effort, spat full in his direction. It was as though a signal had been given.Campian, however, was quick and resourceful in his strait. In a flash, as it were, he had whirled Buktiar’s tulwar from its scabbard as the ex-chuprassi was still leaning over his camel-gear, and with a rapid cut had slashed the face of the foremost of the ferocious crew which now hurled itself, howling, upon him. Then two or three quick bounds backward and he was within his apartment, with the door banged to, and the charpoy and a heavy chest which stood in the room so wedged against it that it could not be forced by any method short of knocking out the opposite wall.For a while the hubbub was appalling, as the infuriated Baluchis hurled themselves against the door, bellowing forth terrific shouts and curses. The beleaguered man within stood there, his tulwar raised, panting violently with the excitement and exertion, prepared to sell his life at the price of several, for a desperate man armed with a tulwar and driven to bay, is no joke—to the several. Then there was a sudden silence. Campian, with every faculty of hearing strained, was speculating what new device they would adopt to get at him. He had no hope now. It was only a question of time. Then Buktiar’s voice made itself heard, calling out in English: “You come out I’sirdar—he want speak with you.”“Sirdar? What sirdar? Oh, skittles! You don’t come it over me with that thin yarn, Buktiar,” replied Campian, with a reckless laugh, evolved from the sheer hopelessness of his position.“No. I speak true. I’sirdar—he just come—I’sirdar Yar Hussain Khan.”“Umar Khan, you mean—eh?”“No—not Umar Khan. Yar Hussain—big sirdar of Marri.”“How am I to know if this fellow is lying or not?” soliloquised Campian aloud. “See here, Buktiar. You’re a damned fool if you don’t do all you can for me. You know I promised you a thousand rupees.”“I know, sahib. This time I speak true. You come out or I’sirdar p’r’aps get angry and go away.”Campian resolved to risk it. Therein lay a chance—otherwise there was none. Cautiously, yet concealing his caution, he flung open the door, and stepped boldly forth, his very intrepidity begotten of the extremity of his strait.No. The ex-chuprassi had not lied. Standing there, his immediate retinue grouped behind him, was a tall, stately figure. Campian recognised him at a glance. It was the Marri sirdar, Yar Hussain Khan.Behind the group several horses were standing, the chief’s spirited mount, with its ornate saddle cloth and trappings, being led up and down the square by one of the young Baluchis. Not a weapon was raised as the beleaguered man stepped forth. The village people stood around, sullen and scowling.“Salaam, Sirdar sahib!” said Campian advancing, having shifted the tulwar, with which he would not part, to the left hand. “Buktiar, remind the chief, that when we met before, at the jungle-wallah sahib’s camp, he said he would be glad to see me in his village, and—here I am.” And he extended his right hand.But Yar Hussain did not respond with any cordiality to this advance, indeed at first it seemed as though he were going to repel it altogether. However, he returned the proffered handshake, though coldly—and the sternness of his strong, dignified countenance in no wise relaxed as he uttered a frigid “salaam.”Then a magical change flashed across his features, and his eyes lit up. Throwing his head back, he stared at the astonished Campian.“Put forth thy hand again, Feringhi,” he said, in a quick, deep tone, as though mastering some strong emotion. Wondering greatly—as the request was translated by Buktiar—Campian complied. And now he saw light. What had attracted the chief’s attention was a ring he wore—a quaint Eastern ring, in which was set a greenish stone covered with strange characters.“Where obtainedst thou this?” inquired Yar Hussain, still in the deep tones of eager excitement, his eyes fixed upon the ring.“From my father, to whom it was presented by an Afghan sirdar whose life he was the means of saving. It was supposed to bring good fortune to all who wore it. Have you ever seen a similar one, Sirdar sahib?”But for answer there broke from several of those on either hand of the chief, and who, with heads bent forward, were gazing upon the circlet, hurried ejaculations.“The Durani ring!” they exclaimed. “Yes, Allah is great. The Durani ring!”They stared at the circlet, then at its wearer, then at the ring again, and broke forth into renewed exclamations. Yar Hussain the while seemed as though turned into stone. Finally, recovering himself he said:“This is a matter that needs talking over. We will discuss it within.”At these words themalikof the village fort, with much deference, marshalled the sirdar to his own house. With him went Campian and two or three followers. Buktiar Khan, to his unmitigated disappointment, was left outside. When they were seated—this time comfortably on cushions, for this room was very different in its appointments to the bare, squalid one which had been allotted to the prisoner hitherto—one of the Baluchis addressed Campian in excellent English, to the latter’s unbounded astonishment.“The sirdar would like to hear the story of that ring,” he said. “You need not fear to talk, sir. I am his half brother. I learnt English at Lahore when I was Queen’s soldier, so I tell the sirdar again all you say.”Decidedly this was better than being dependent on an unreliable scamp such as Buktiar Khan, and Campian felt quite relieved. For somehow he realised that his peril was over—probably his oft repeated trials and wearing captivity, but that might depend upon his own diplomacy, and what deft use he might make of the circumstance of the ring.For a few moments he sat silent and pondering. The story of the ring was so bound up with that of the ruby sword and the hidden treasure that it was difficult to tell the one without revealing the other. The information which he himself possessed declared that the only man who would be likely to know anything about the matter was the Syyed Aïn Asrâf. He, however, had not recognised the ring. Could there be two Syyeds Aïn Asrâf?Then he remembered that Yar Hussain was of Afghan descent. Did he know anything of the hiding of the treasure, or at any rate where it was hidden? The first was possible, the second hardly likely, or he would almost certainly have removed it.“What was the name of the Durani sirdar?” asked Yar Hussain at last. “Dost Hussain Khan,” replied Campian. “He is my father,” said the chief, “and he rests on the rim of Paradise. There is truth in thy statement, O Feringhi, who—they tell me—art now a believer. He was saved by a Feringhi, and an unbeliever, yet a brave and true man, and for him and his we never cease to pray.”“Then are we brothers, Sirdar,” said Campian, “for the man who saved the life of thy father is my father.”The astonishment depicted on the faces of those who heard this statement was indescribable.“Ya Allah!” cried the chief, raising hands and eyes to heaven. “Wonderful are Thy ways! Hast thou a token, Feringhi?”“Is not that of the ring sufficient?” returned Campian, purposely simulating offence. “If not, listen. The Sirdar Dost Hussain Khan, when pressed by his enemies, concealed his treasures, principal among which was a ruby hilted sword of wellnigh priceless value. This treasure is lost. None know of its whereabouts to this day.”The chief’s kinsman, whose name was Sohrâb Khan, hardly able to mask his own amazement, translated this. An emphatic assent went up from all who heard.“The treasure was enclosed in a strong chest of dark wood, three cubits in length, covered with words from the blessed Korân, and clamped with heavy brass bindings,” went on Campian. “The Durani sirdar was killed by the Brahuis. And now, why has the secret of its whereabouts been lost? Does not the Syyed Aïn Asrâf know of it?”The astonishment on the faces of those who heard found outlet in a vehement negative.Then Sohrâb Khan explained. The Syyed, he said, knew nothing. All that the Feringhi, now a believer, had said was true. But the Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan would fain repurchase the ring, because there was a tradition in their house that its gift to an unbeliever—good and brave man as that unbeliever was—had caused the disappearance of the treasure. When it was recovered the secret of the whereabouts of the ruby sword and the other valuables would be revealed. Would five thousand rupees repurchase it?To this Campian returned no immediate answer. He was turning the matter over in his mind—not that of the sale and the proffered price, for on that head his mind was clear. Of whatever value this lost property might be, these people, and they alone, had any claim to it. There was a strange fatality about the way they had been enabled to save his life, and that at the most critical moments—first the Syyed Aïn Asrâf when the sword of Umar Khan was raised above his defenceless head—now the arrival of Yar Hussain and his following in time to rescue him from the savage vengeance of the friends and kinsmen of Ihalil. His father had foregone any claim upon the treasure, even when a share of it was proffered him by the grateful potentate whose life he had saved; and now he, too, meant to make no claim. He had ample for his own needs—all he asked was restoration to liberty. Yet even for this he did not stipulate.“Listen,” he said at length, and during the time occupied by his meditations it was characteristic that no word or sign of impatience escaped those dignified Orientals, notwithstanding the grave import of the matter under discussion. “It seems that the tradition relating to the recovery of the ring is one of truth. For if it was given to an unbeliever—albeit a brave and true man—now is it recovered by a believer. See”—holding out his hand, so that all might see the green stone and its cabalistic characters—“see—am I not one of yourselves? And now, O my brother, Yar Hussain Khan, I will restore unto thee this treasure, even I; for it hath been revealed unto me. I have described it and the chest which containeth it. Now, let us fare forth to the valley called Kachîn that thou mayest possess it once more.”

When he awoke to consciousness Campian realised that he was lying on a charpoy, within a low, mud-plastered room.

His limbs were no longer bound, but his whole frame ached from head to foot with a racking pain. With the first attempt to move he groaned, and once more closed his eyes. That last fearful ordeal had been too much for nerve and brain. Even now, as he awoke, the recollection of it came back with a rush.

A slight rustling and the sound of a quiet footstep caused him to look forth once more. A bearded, long-haired Baluchi was standing beside the bed with an earthen bowl in his hand.

“Kaha Syyed Aïn Asrâf hai?” queried Campian.

But the man only shook his head, set down the bowl, and departed.

He drank the contents, which consisted of slightly curdled goat’s milk, and feeling vastly better, made up his mind to rise.

The turban he had before worn was lying beside him. Twisting it on, he sallied forth.

The sun was sky high, but the air was no longer the scorching breath of the desert. It was fresh, almost cool. As he looked around he could see the towering head of a mountain beyond the line of roof.

A sort of labyrinth of mud-walls confronted and puzzled him, but of inhabitants he saw not a soul. Making his way carefully forward he came upon an open space, but walled in all round; in fact, he seemed to be in a kind of walled village, and of the surrounding country nothing could he descry but the mountain overhead.

Several savage looking Baluchis stood or squatted in groups. These muttered a sulky “salaam,” but their faces were all strange to him; not one among them seemed to have been of the party amid which his lot had formerly been cast. Women, too, here and there were visible—that is to say, their clothing was, for their closely drawn chuddas, with the two circular, barred eyeholes, conveyed to the spectator no sort of idea as to whether the face within was young or old, pretty or hideous, comely or hag-like.

Again he inquired for the old Syyed, only to meet with the same unconcerned headshake. The mention of Buktiar Khan met with no more satisfactory result. This was bad. The cross-eyed ex-chuprassi, slippery scoundrel as he might be, was, at any rate, somebody to talk to, and, furthermore, a valuable mouthpiece. For the kind-hearted old Syyed he had conceived a genuine regard, and it was with something like a real pang of regret that he missed the benevolent face and paternal manner of that venerable saint. But, more important than all, he missed the feeling of protection and security which the latter’s presence had inspired, and which, he realised with a qualm, he might only too soon need; for a more forbidding, murderous looking set of ruffians than the men who inhabited this village he thought he had never in his life beheld.

Two of these, engaged in their devotions, on one side of the square, attracted his attention. Moved by a desire to propitiate, he went over to them, and putting off his shoes, spread his chudda beside them and began to do likewise. And now, for the first time—realising his insecurity, and missing the presence of his kind old preceptor—in his strait and loneliness, a kind of reality seemed to come into the formula; and bowing himself down towards Mecca, he felt that this creed which unified the hearts of millions and millions might even be ordered so as to form a link of brotherhood between himself and the fierce hearts of those surrounding him—and, let it come from whatever source it might, the inspiration was a sustaining one. He arose with renewed confidence—even something of renewed hope.

Such, however, was not destined to last. As the days went by the demeanour of those around grew more and more hostile—at times even threatening. They would hardly reply to his civil and brotherly “salaam,” and would scowl evilly at him even during prayer. It began to get upon his nerves.

And well it might. In the first place he was a close prisoner, never being suffered to go outside the loop-holed walls, and the want of exercise told upon his health. Then, he had no idea as to where he was, or for what purpose he was being kept: that it was with the object of ransom he had more than begun to abandon hope, since the weeks had dragged into months, and yet no sign from the outside world. Into months—for there were signs of approaching winter now. The peak of the overhanging mountain took on more than one cap of powdery snow, and the air, at nights, became piercingly cold. And then with the growing hostility of those around, he framed a theory that they were but awaiting the return of Umar Khan to put him to death, with such adjuncts of cruelty as that implacable barbarian might feel moved to devise.

Would his fate ever be known? Why should it? Orientals were as close as death when they chose to keep anything a mystery. But what mattered whether it were known or not? Vivien? She would soon forget—or find some “duty” to console her, he told himself in all the bitterness fostered by his unnerved and strained state. No—but of her he would not think; and this resolve, framed from the earliest stage of his captivity, he had persistently observed. He needed all his strength, all his philosophy. To dwell upon thoughts of her—only regained in order to be re-lost—had a perilous tendency to sap both.

All manner of wild ideas of escape would come to him, only to be dismissed. He had made one attempt, and failed. If that had been unsuccessful—near home, so to say, and in country he knew—what sort of success would crown any such effort here in a wild and unknown region, which, for aught he knew, might be hundreds of miles from any European centre? To fail again would render his condition infinitely worse, even if it did not entail his death.

At last something occurred. It was just after the hour of morning prayer. A sound struck full upon his ears. Away over the desert it came—the long cracking roll of a rifle volley. Then another, followed by a few scattered and dropping shots. Others had heard it, too, and were peering through the loopholes in the outer wall. Faint and far it was, but approaching—oh, yes, surely approaching.

Rescue? Surely this time it was. A clue to his whereabouts had been found, and the search expedition had discovered him at last. The blood surged hotly in his veins at the thought—but—with it came another. Would these barbarians allow him to leave their midst alive? Not likely.

Then a plan formulated itself in his mind. He would retire to the room he occupied and barricade the door. That would allow his deliverers time to appear in force. So far, however, the people within the village fort made no hostile movement towards him. They seemed to have forgotten his presence, so engrossed were they in observing what might be going on outside. At last, however, the gates were thrown open to admit three men on camels, supporting a fourth. Him they lowered carefully to the ground, a fresh stream of blood welling forth from his wounds as they did so, crimsoning his dirty white garments; and, in the grim, drawn countenance, with its set teeth and glazing eyes, Campian recognised the lineaments of Ihalil Mohammed.

The man was dying. Nothing but the tenacity of a son of the desert and the mountain would have supported him thus far, with two Lee-Metford bullets through his vitals. There he lay, however, the sands of life ebbing fast, the very moments of his fierce, lawless, predatory career numbered.

“You take care. Baluchi very cross,” murmured a voice, in English, at Campian’s side. No need had he to turn to recognise in it that of Buktiar Khan.

The warning was needed—yet even then, fully alive to his peril, he could not forbear hurriedly asking what had happened. As hurriedly the ex-chuprassi told him; which he was able to do while loosening the saddle girths of his camel, the attention of the others, too, being occupied with the dying man. A body of native horse led by two English officers had come up to a neighbouring village, but themalikwho ruled it had refused to allow them the use of the wells. The cavalry had persisted, and then the Baluchis had fired upon them. There had been a fight, and then a parley, and the English officers had set off in pursuit of Umar Khan, who had been present until he saw how things were going with his countrymen.

“No. The sahibs not come here. Umar Khan go right the other way,” concluded Buktiar. “But—you take care—Baluchi very cross.”

If ever there was point in a warning it was at that moment. Several of those around Ihalil turned their heads and were eyeing the prisoner ominously. The dying brigand, too, with hate in his glassy stare, seemed to be muttering curses and menace, then with a last effort, spat full in his direction. It was as though a signal had been given.

Campian, however, was quick and resourceful in his strait. In a flash, as it were, he had whirled Buktiar’s tulwar from its scabbard as the ex-chuprassi was still leaning over his camel-gear, and with a rapid cut had slashed the face of the foremost of the ferocious crew which now hurled itself, howling, upon him. Then two or three quick bounds backward and he was within his apartment, with the door banged to, and the charpoy and a heavy chest which stood in the room so wedged against it that it could not be forced by any method short of knocking out the opposite wall.

For a while the hubbub was appalling, as the infuriated Baluchis hurled themselves against the door, bellowing forth terrific shouts and curses. The beleaguered man within stood there, his tulwar raised, panting violently with the excitement and exertion, prepared to sell his life at the price of several, for a desperate man armed with a tulwar and driven to bay, is no joke—to the several. Then there was a sudden silence. Campian, with every faculty of hearing strained, was speculating what new device they would adopt to get at him. He had no hope now. It was only a question of time. Then Buktiar’s voice made itself heard, calling out in English: “You come out I’sirdar—he want speak with you.”

“Sirdar? What sirdar? Oh, skittles! You don’t come it over me with that thin yarn, Buktiar,” replied Campian, with a reckless laugh, evolved from the sheer hopelessness of his position.

“No. I speak true. I’sirdar—he just come—I’sirdar Yar Hussain Khan.”

“Umar Khan, you mean—eh?”

“No—not Umar Khan. Yar Hussain—big sirdar of Marri.”

“How am I to know if this fellow is lying or not?” soliloquised Campian aloud. “See here, Buktiar. You’re a damned fool if you don’t do all you can for me. You know I promised you a thousand rupees.”

“I know, sahib. This time I speak true. You come out or I’sirdar p’r’aps get angry and go away.”

Campian resolved to risk it. Therein lay a chance—otherwise there was none. Cautiously, yet concealing his caution, he flung open the door, and stepped boldly forth, his very intrepidity begotten of the extremity of his strait.

No. The ex-chuprassi had not lied. Standing there, his immediate retinue grouped behind him, was a tall, stately figure. Campian recognised him at a glance. It was the Marri sirdar, Yar Hussain Khan.

Behind the group several horses were standing, the chief’s spirited mount, with its ornate saddle cloth and trappings, being led up and down the square by one of the young Baluchis. Not a weapon was raised as the beleaguered man stepped forth. The village people stood around, sullen and scowling.

“Salaam, Sirdar sahib!” said Campian advancing, having shifted the tulwar, with which he would not part, to the left hand. “Buktiar, remind the chief, that when we met before, at the jungle-wallah sahib’s camp, he said he would be glad to see me in his village, and—here I am.” And he extended his right hand.

But Yar Hussain did not respond with any cordiality to this advance, indeed at first it seemed as though he were going to repel it altogether. However, he returned the proffered handshake, though coldly—and the sternness of his strong, dignified countenance in no wise relaxed as he uttered a frigid “salaam.”

Then a magical change flashed across his features, and his eyes lit up. Throwing his head back, he stared at the astonished Campian.

“Put forth thy hand again, Feringhi,” he said, in a quick, deep tone, as though mastering some strong emotion. Wondering greatly—as the request was translated by Buktiar—Campian complied. And now he saw light. What had attracted the chief’s attention was a ring he wore—a quaint Eastern ring, in which was set a greenish stone covered with strange characters.

“Where obtainedst thou this?” inquired Yar Hussain, still in the deep tones of eager excitement, his eyes fixed upon the ring.

“From my father, to whom it was presented by an Afghan sirdar whose life he was the means of saving. It was supposed to bring good fortune to all who wore it. Have you ever seen a similar one, Sirdar sahib?”

But for answer there broke from several of those on either hand of the chief, and who, with heads bent forward, were gazing upon the circlet, hurried ejaculations.

“The Durani ring!” they exclaimed. “Yes, Allah is great. The Durani ring!”

They stared at the circlet, then at its wearer, then at the ring again, and broke forth into renewed exclamations. Yar Hussain the while seemed as though turned into stone. Finally, recovering himself he said:

“This is a matter that needs talking over. We will discuss it within.”

At these words themalikof the village fort, with much deference, marshalled the sirdar to his own house. With him went Campian and two or three followers. Buktiar Khan, to his unmitigated disappointment, was left outside. When they were seated—this time comfortably on cushions, for this room was very different in its appointments to the bare, squalid one which had been allotted to the prisoner hitherto—one of the Baluchis addressed Campian in excellent English, to the latter’s unbounded astonishment.

“The sirdar would like to hear the story of that ring,” he said. “You need not fear to talk, sir. I am his half brother. I learnt English at Lahore when I was Queen’s soldier, so I tell the sirdar again all you say.”

Decidedly this was better than being dependent on an unreliable scamp such as Buktiar Khan, and Campian felt quite relieved. For somehow he realised that his peril was over—probably his oft repeated trials and wearing captivity, but that might depend upon his own diplomacy, and what deft use he might make of the circumstance of the ring.

For a few moments he sat silent and pondering. The story of the ring was so bound up with that of the ruby sword and the hidden treasure that it was difficult to tell the one without revealing the other. The information which he himself possessed declared that the only man who would be likely to know anything about the matter was the Syyed Aïn Asrâf. He, however, had not recognised the ring. Could there be two Syyeds Aïn Asrâf?

Then he remembered that Yar Hussain was of Afghan descent. Did he know anything of the hiding of the treasure, or at any rate where it was hidden? The first was possible, the second hardly likely, or he would almost certainly have removed it.

“What was the name of the Durani sirdar?” asked Yar Hussain at last. “Dost Hussain Khan,” replied Campian. “He is my father,” said the chief, “and he rests on the rim of Paradise. There is truth in thy statement, O Feringhi, who—they tell me—art now a believer. He was saved by a Feringhi, and an unbeliever, yet a brave and true man, and for him and his we never cease to pray.”

“Then are we brothers, Sirdar,” said Campian, “for the man who saved the life of thy father is my father.”

The astonishment depicted on the faces of those who heard this statement was indescribable.

“Ya Allah!” cried the chief, raising hands and eyes to heaven. “Wonderful are Thy ways! Hast thou a token, Feringhi?”

“Is not that of the ring sufficient?” returned Campian, purposely simulating offence. “If not, listen. The Sirdar Dost Hussain Khan, when pressed by his enemies, concealed his treasures, principal among which was a ruby hilted sword of wellnigh priceless value. This treasure is lost. None know of its whereabouts to this day.”

The chief’s kinsman, whose name was Sohrâb Khan, hardly able to mask his own amazement, translated this. An emphatic assent went up from all who heard.

“The treasure was enclosed in a strong chest of dark wood, three cubits in length, covered with words from the blessed Korân, and clamped with heavy brass bindings,” went on Campian. “The Durani sirdar was killed by the Brahuis. And now, why has the secret of its whereabouts been lost? Does not the Syyed Aïn Asrâf know of it?”

The astonishment on the faces of those who heard found outlet in a vehement negative.

Then Sohrâb Khan explained. The Syyed, he said, knew nothing. All that the Feringhi, now a believer, had said was true. But the Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan would fain repurchase the ring, because there was a tradition in their house that its gift to an unbeliever—good and brave man as that unbeliever was—had caused the disappearance of the treasure. When it was recovered the secret of the whereabouts of the ruby sword and the other valuables would be revealed. Would five thousand rupees repurchase it?

To this Campian returned no immediate answer. He was turning the matter over in his mind—not that of the sale and the proffered price, for on that head his mind was clear. Of whatever value this lost property might be, these people, and they alone, had any claim to it. There was a strange fatality about the way they had been enabled to save his life, and that at the most critical moments—first the Syyed Aïn Asrâf when the sword of Umar Khan was raised above his defenceless head—now the arrival of Yar Hussain and his following in time to rescue him from the savage vengeance of the friends and kinsmen of Ihalil. His father had foregone any claim upon the treasure, even when a share of it was proffered him by the grateful potentate whose life he had saved; and now he, too, meant to make no claim. He had ample for his own needs—all he asked was restoration to liberty. Yet even for this he did not stipulate.

“Listen,” he said at length, and during the time occupied by his meditations it was characteristic that no word or sign of impatience escaped those dignified Orientals, notwithstanding the grave import of the matter under discussion. “It seems that the tradition relating to the recovery of the ring is one of truth. For if it was given to an unbeliever—albeit a brave and true man—now is it recovered by a believer. See”—holding out his hand, so that all might see the green stone and its cabalistic characters—“see—am I not one of yourselves? And now, O my brother, Yar Hussain Khan, I will restore unto thee this treasure, even I; for it hath been revealed unto me. I have described it and the chest which containeth it. Now, let us fare forth to the valley called Kachîn that thou mayest possess it once more.”

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