Chapter Sixteen.At Shâlalai.“By Jove, but it is good to be back again!” said Upward, in tones of intense satisfaction as he sat down to tiffin in his bungalow at Shâlalai. “The garden is looking splendid, and then all the greenery in the different compounds after those beastly stones and junipers—I’m sick of the whole circus. Only a year or two more, thank goodness.”“Yes, it is always nice to be at home again,” assented his wife. “Nesta must be sick of roughing it, too.”“Well, I won’t say that,” answered the girl. “I’ll only agree that I am rather glad to be back again.”“So they will be at the club this afternoon,” laughed Upward. “By the way, why don’t those children come in? They are always late. It’s a perfect nuisance.”A wrangle of voices, and the children did come in. Racket in hand, they were disputing vehemently as to the rights and wrongs of a game they had been obliged to break off in the middle of.“Wonder how long Campian will stick at Jermyn’s? I believe the old chap’s getting a bit smashed there.”“Nonsense, Ernest,” laughed his wife. “You’re always thinking someone or other must be getting ‘smashed.’”“Why shouldn’t he? She’s a deuced fine girl that niece of Jermyn’s—and then just think what a lot they’ll see of each other. What do you think about it, Miss Cheriton?”“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”“Too black,” put in Lily the irrepressible. “If he could run the gauntlet of Nesta all this time, I don’t think he’s likely to go smash there.”“Of course you’re an authority on such matters, Lily,” laughed her mother. “Ernest, you see now what notions you put into the children’s heads.”“I don’t want any tiffin,” pronounced Hazel. “I only want to get at those nectarines. They just are good. Bother camp! I like it much better here.”The large, lofty, cool room in which they were was hung around with trophies of the chase, all spoils of their owner’s unerring rifle. One end of the room was hung with the skin of an immense tiger, draped, as it were, from ceiling to floor, the other with that of a somewhat smaller one, which had clawed a native out of a tree and killed him before Upward could get in a shot. Hard by was a finely marked panther-skin whose erewhile wearer had badly mauled Upward himself! Panther and jungle cat and cheetul and others were all represented, and with horns of the blackbuck and sambur, tastefully disposed, produced an effect that was picturesque and unique. It served another purpose, too, as Upward used to say in his dry way. It gave people something to talk about when they came to tiffin and dinner. It was sure to set them comparing notes, or swearing they had seen or shot much bigger ones, and so forth. At any rate, it kept them going.The bungalow was surrounded on three sides by a garden of which Upward was justly proud, for it was all of his own making. In front a trim lawn, bright with flower beds, and beyond this a tennis court, of which his neighbours did him the favour to make constant use. They likewise did him the favour to plant their bicycles, dogs, and other impedimenta, about his flower beds, or against the great crimson and purple convolvulus blossoms entwining his summer-house, whereat he fumed inwardly, but suffered in silence, from a misplaced good nature; and, after all, it was a little way they had in Shâlalai. Peaches and nectarines and plums attained a high degree of excellence in their own department, likewise every kind of green vegetable—and the verandah was green and cool with all sorts of ferns.“I wonder none of the garrison have been up, Miss Cheriton,” he went on. “They can’t have got wind that you’re back. What’s that? Some of them already?” For Tinkles, suddenly leaping from her chair, darted out into the hall, barking shrilly and making a prodigious fuss. At the same time steps were heard on the verandah.“That’s Fleming,” said Upward, recognising the voice—then going out into the hall. “Come in here, old chap. Well, what’s the news?”“There is some news, but—Hallo! Excuse me, Mrs Upward. Didn’t know you were at tiffin.”“It’s all right. We’re just done. Get into that chair and have a ‘peg’—and then we can hear thekubbur.”“Well, it’s not very definite as yet,” replied Fleming, subsiding into the chair indicated. “Thanks, Upward—only a small one, I’ve just had one at the club. They say—By the bye, didn’t you come in from Mehriâb yesterday?”“Yes, of course. But why?”“Was it all right?”“Was what all right?”“Why, the look of things?”“We didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Jermyn and his niece and Campian came down with us to see us off. There was nothing wrong then. But why? What do they suspect?”“Dunlop had occasion to wire officially to the stationmaster at Mehriâb yesterday afternoon and could get no reply. He kept on wiring, but it was no good.”“Maybe somebudmâshhas been playing gooseberry with the wire.”“Cutting it? No. The communication is quite all right with the stations next to Mehriâb on either side.”“It was all right yesterday at Mehriâb, for I sent a couple of wires myself,” said Upward. “Perhaps the telegraph clerk is taken ill.”“It might be that of course. But there’s a rumour flying around the bazaar this morning that Umar Khan has been raiding up the Kachîn valley. What if he has stuck up Mehriâb station to plunder the safe?”Upward whistled.“Yes—that might be,” he said. “Only I wish he had done it while we were all there. I had two rifles and a shot gun and a six shooter. I think among us all—myself and Campian and old Jermyn and my two foresters—we’d have given Mr Umar Khan very particular what for. But what should bring him up to those parts? He was supposed to be making the other way when he cut up those two ‘gharri-wallahs.’”“I don’t know. It’s only bazaar rumour, mind.”“Now I think of it,” went on Upward, “there did seem rather more than usual of the evil-lookingsoorshanging about the platform. They’d all got tulwars too. By Jove—what if they were only waiting till the train had left to break out, and Ghazi the whole show? Oh, Lord! That puts things in a new light. There were enough of them to do it too.”Fleming looked grave. “Then what about your friend and the Jermyns?” he said.“Heavens, yes. Perhaps thesoorswaited until they had gone. Hallo, Miss Cheriton. What’s the matter?”For Nesta had gone as pale as death—looking as if she would faint dead away.“It’s nothing. I shall be all right again in a minute. Why do you suggest such horrible things?” she broke off quite angrily. “It is enough to upset one.”Both men looked foolish—and all stared. The outburst was so unlike her.“Let’s go and see if we can get at something definite,” said Upward, jumping up. “Did you drive here, Fleming?”“No—biked.”“All right I’ll jump on mine and we’ll spin round to McIvor’s. He may have gotkubburof sorts—but these Politicals are so dashed close.”A three minutes’ spin along the level military road brought the two men to the Acting Political’s. That official looked grave at sight of Upward. He guessed his errand—and at once handed him a telegram.“This is the latest,” he said.It was a long message, but the substance of it was that on the arrival of the train due at Mehriâb that morning at eleven, not a living soul was in sight, nor was any signal down. The engine-driver slowed down and advanced cautiously, when the fact of the massacre became apparent. Then they had been signalled by Colonel Jermyn and his niece, who were in a great state of horror and distress, and reported that their guest had been taken away as prisoner by the Ghazis. They and the Colonel’s bearer were taken on to the next station beyond Mehriâb, whence they would return to Shâlalai by the afternoon train.“What’s going to be done about it?” said Upward.“We’ve started a strong body of Police after them, and two troops of Sindh Horse are to follow,” said the Political.“Yes, and then they’ll cut Campian’s throat. In fact I wonder they didn’t already. It looks as if they wanted him ransomed, and if so—by George—the way to do for him is to start dusting a lot of Police after them.”The Political was a man of few words. He shrugged his shoulders, and observed that the matter did not rest with him. He could give them all the information he had at his disposal, but that was all.“This wants thinking out, Fleming,” said Upward, as they were spinning along on their bicycles again. “What can be done? What the devilcanbe done? As sure as they run those Ghazis close—then, goodnight to Campian. But Jermyn will be here this evening—then we shall get at the whole story.”The evening train arrived in due course, bringing with it the three survivors of the outbreak. The Ghazis had kept faith with them, and had retired, leaving them without further molestation. But the whole night had to be got through, and a very trying one it was, for they were not without fear lest some of the people in the neighbourhood, becoming affected with the contagion of bloodshedding, should come and complete what the Ghazis had left undone. Fortunately there was thedâkbungalow for them to retire to—and they were thus enabled to escape from the immediate proximity of the ghastly slaughter-house scenes which the platform, and indeed the railway station generally, presented. No further alarm however had come their way, and they had been picked up by the morning train, as detailed in the telegram.They had come away, of course, with scarcely any luggage, but Upward’s bungalow was elastic, and therein they were promptly installed. Vivien, now that the tension was relaxed, succumbed to a nervous reaction that prostrated her for days—and which, indeed, was not entirely due to the horrors she had gone through. The Colonel was loud on Campian’s praises. But for him they would never have got out of the mess, by Jove, he declared. The fellow’s coolness in venturing among those cut-throats was splendid—and so on. When he got back again in a week or two he would have some experiences, and he seemed the sort of fellow who was partial to experiences. Thus the Colonel. But Upward, listening, was not so easy in his mind. He hoped Campian would be back among them in a week or two, but—Heavens! what if he were not? The Marris were a savage lot, and these particular ones were a combination of Ghazi and brigand. He felt uneasy—most infernally uneasy—in which predicament he did two things—he sent for Bhallu Khan, and consulted long and oft with the authorities.The latter were not so eager to fall in with his views as he considered they ought to be. It might be true, as he said, that aggressive action against Umar Khan would imperil the life of the hostage, but on the other hand, were they to sit supine for eight days, while that notorious ruffian raided and plundered and murdered at will all over the country.The knot of the difficulty however was cut, as is frequently the case, by circumstances. Each movement against him, undertaken with great promptitude and spirit, resulted in failure, whereat Upward, and others interested in the fate of the hostage rejoiced. It was not likely that such a ruthless barbarian as Umar Khan was known to be, would allow his prisoner to be taken out of his hands alive—no, not for a moment—whereas having kept faith so far he might do so until the end, especially if a handsomebaksheeshwas added to the stipulated sum. After that, the sooner he was caught and hanged the better.Meanwhile the affair caused great excitement in the outlying parts, and not a little scare. Outlying shooting parties deemed it advisable to return and some of the railway employés on the lonely stations along the line—natives or Eurasians mostly—resigned their posts in panic, fearing lest a similar fate should overtake themselves. On the arrival of Bhallu Khan some news was gleaned, but not much. The Ghazis had hung about the Kachîn valley for a day or two, and had looted the forest bungalow—refraining, however, from firing it. Then they seemed to have disappeared entirely, and if he had any sort of inkling of their probable destination, Bhallu Khan, a Baluchi himself, could not or would not reveal it.
“By Jove, but it is good to be back again!” said Upward, in tones of intense satisfaction as he sat down to tiffin in his bungalow at Shâlalai. “The garden is looking splendid, and then all the greenery in the different compounds after those beastly stones and junipers—I’m sick of the whole circus. Only a year or two more, thank goodness.”
“Yes, it is always nice to be at home again,” assented his wife. “Nesta must be sick of roughing it, too.”
“Well, I won’t say that,” answered the girl. “I’ll only agree that I am rather glad to be back again.”
“So they will be at the club this afternoon,” laughed Upward. “By the way, why don’t those children come in? They are always late. It’s a perfect nuisance.”
A wrangle of voices, and the children did come in. Racket in hand, they were disputing vehemently as to the rights and wrongs of a game they had been obliged to break off in the middle of.
“Wonder how long Campian will stick at Jermyn’s? I believe the old chap’s getting a bit smashed there.”
“Nonsense, Ernest,” laughed his wife. “You’re always thinking someone or other must be getting ‘smashed.’”
“Why shouldn’t he? She’s a deuced fine girl that niece of Jermyn’s—and then just think what a lot they’ll see of each other. What do you think about it, Miss Cheriton?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”
“Too black,” put in Lily the irrepressible. “If he could run the gauntlet of Nesta all this time, I don’t think he’s likely to go smash there.”
“Of course you’re an authority on such matters, Lily,” laughed her mother. “Ernest, you see now what notions you put into the children’s heads.”
“I don’t want any tiffin,” pronounced Hazel. “I only want to get at those nectarines. They just are good. Bother camp! I like it much better here.”
The large, lofty, cool room in which they were was hung around with trophies of the chase, all spoils of their owner’s unerring rifle. One end of the room was hung with the skin of an immense tiger, draped, as it were, from ceiling to floor, the other with that of a somewhat smaller one, which had clawed a native out of a tree and killed him before Upward could get in a shot. Hard by was a finely marked panther-skin whose erewhile wearer had badly mauled Upward himself! Panther and jungle cat and cheetul and others were all represented, and with horns of the blackbuck and sambur, tastefully disposed, produced an effect that was picturesque and unique. It served another purpose, too, as Upward used to say in his dry way. It gave people something to talk about when they came to tiffin and dinner. It was sure to set them comparing notes, or swearing they had seen or shot much bigger ones, and so forth. At any rate, it kept them going.
The bungalow was surrounded on three sides by a garden of which Upward was justly proud, for it was all of his own making. In front a trim lawn, bright with flower beds, and beyond this a tennis court, of which his neighbours did him the favour to make constant use. They likewise did him the favour to plant their bicycles, dogs, and other impedimenta, about his flower beds, or against the great crimson and purple convolvulus blossoms entwining his summer-house, whereat he fumed inwardly, but suffered in silence, from a misplaced good nature; and, after all, it was a little way they had in Shâlalai. Peaches and nectarines and plums attained a high degree of excellence in their own department, likewise every kind of green vegetable—and the verandah was green and cool with all sorts of ferns.
“I wonder none of the garrison have been up, Miss Cheriton,” he went on. “They can’t have got wind that you’re back. What’s that? Some of them already?” For Tinkles, suddenly leaping from her chair, darted out into the hall, barking shrilly and making a prodigious fuss. At the same time steps were heard on the verandah.
“That’s Fleming,” said Upward, recognising the voice—then going out into the hall. “Come in here, old chap. Well, what’s the news?”
“There is some news, but—Hallo! Excuse me, Mrs Upward. Didn’t know you were at tiffin.”
“It’s all right. We’re just done. Get into that chair and have a ‘peg’—and then we can hear thekubbur.”
“Well, it’s not very definite as yet,” replied Fleming, subsiding into the chair indicated. “Thanks, Upward—only a small one, I’ve just had one at the club. They say—By the bye, didn’t you come in from Mehriâb yesterday?”
“Yes, of course. But why?”
“Was it all right?”
“Was what all right?”
“Why, the look of things?”
“We didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Jermyn and his niece and Campian came down with us to see us off. There was nothing wrong then. But why? What do they suspect?”
“Dunlop had occasion to wire officially to the stationmaster at Mehriâb yesterday afternoon and could get no reply. He kept on wiring, but it was no good.”
“Maybe somebudmâshhas been playing gooseberry with the wire.”
“Cutting it? No. The communication is quite all right with the stations next to Mehriâb on either side.”
“It was all right yesterday at Mehriâb, for I sent a couple of wires myself,” said Upward. “Perhaps the telegraph clerk is taken ill.”
“It might be that of course. But there’s a rumour flying around the bazaar this morning that Umar Khan has been raiding up the Kachîn valley. What if he has stuck up Mehriâb station to plunder the safe?”
Upward whistled.
“Yes—that might be,” he said. “Only I wish he had done it while we were all there. I had two rifles and a shot gun and a six shooter. I think among us all—myself and Campian and old Jermyn and my two foresters—we’d have given Mr Umar Khan very particular what for. But what should bring him up to those parts? He was supposed to be making the other way when he cut up those two ‘gharri-wallahs.’”
“I don’t know. It’s only bazaar rumour, mind.”
“Now I think of it,” went on Upward, “there did seem rather more than usual of the evil-lookingsoorshanging about the platform. They’d all got tulwars too. By Jove—what if they were only waiting till the train had left to break out, and Ghazi the whole show? Oh, Lord! That puts things in a new light. There were enough of them to do it too.”
Fleming looked grave. “Then what about your friend and the Jermyns?” he said.
“Heavens, yes. Perhaps thesoorswaited until they had gone. Hallo, Miss Cheriton. What’s the matter?”
For Nesta had gone as pale as death—looking as if she would faint dead away.
“It’s nothing. I shall be all right again in a minute. Why do you suggest such horrible things?” she broke off quite angrily. “It is enough to upset one.”
Both men looked foolish—and all stared. The outburst was so unlike her.
“Let’s go and see if we can get at something definite,” said Upward, jumping up. “Did you drive here, Fleming?”
“No—biked.”
“All right I’ll jump on mine and we’ll spin round to McIvor’s. He may have gotkubburof sorts—but these Politicals are so dashed close.”
A three minutes’ spin along the level military road brought the two men to the Acting Political’s. That official looked grave at sight of Upward. He guessed his errand—and at once handed him a telegram.
“This is the latest,” he said.
It was a long message, but the substance of it was that on the arrival of the train due at Mehriâb that morning at eleven, not a living soul was in sight, nor was any signal down. The engine-driver slowed down and advanced cautiously, when the fact of the massacre became apparent. Then they had been signalled by Colonel Jermyn and his niece, who were in a great state of horror and distress, and reported that their guest had been taken away as prisoner by the Ghazis. They and the Colonel’s bearer were taken on to the next station beyond Mehriâb, whence they would return to Shâlalai by the afternoon train.
“What’s going to be done about it?” said Upward.
“We’ve started a strong body of Police after them, and two troops of Sindh Horse are to follow,” said the Political.
“Yes, and then they’ll cut Campian’s throat. In fact I wonder they didn’t already. It looks as if they wanted him ransomed, and if so—by George—the way to do for him is to start dusting a lot of Police after them.”
The Political was a man of few words. He shrugged his shoulders, and observed that the matter did not rest with him. He could give them all the information he had at his disposal, but that was all.
“This wants thinking out, Fleming,” said Upward, as they were spinning along on their bicycles again. “What can be done? What the devilcanbe done? As sure as they run those Ghazis close—then, goodnight to Campian. But Jermyn will be here this evening—then we shall get at the whole story.”
The evening train arrived in due course, bringing with it the three survivors of the outbreak. The Ghazis had kept faith with them, and had retired, leaving them without further molestation. But the whole night had to be got through, and a very trying one it was, for they were not without fear lest some of the people in the neighbourhood, becoming affected with the contagion of bloodshedding, should come and complete what the Ghazis had left undone. Fortunately there was thedâkbungalow for them to retire to—and they were thus enabled to escape from the immediate proximity of the ghastly slaughter-house scenes which the platform, and indeed the railway station generally, presented. No further alarm however had come their way, and they had been picked up by the morning train, as detailed in the telegram.
They had come away, of course, with scarcely any luggage, but Upward’s bungalow was elastic, and therein they were promptly installed. Vivien, now that the tension was relaxed, succumbed to a nervous reaction that prostrated her for days—and which, indeed, was not entirely due to the horrors she had gone through. The Colonel was loud on Campian’s praises. But for him they would never have got out of the mess, by Jove, he declared. The fellow’s coolness in venturing among those cut-throats was splendid—and so on. When he got back again in a week or two he would have some experiences, and he seemed the sort of fellow who was partial to experiences. Thus the Colonel. But Upward, listening, was not so easy in his mind. He hoped Campian would be back among them in a week or two, but—Heavens! what if he were not? The Marris were a savage lot, and these particular ones were a combination of Ghazi and brigand. He felt uneasy—most infernally uneasy—in which predicament he did two things—he sent for Bhallu Khan, and consulted long and oft with the authorities.
The latter were not so eager to fall in with his views as he considered they ought to be. It might be true, as he said, that aggressive action against Umar Khan would imperil the life of the hostage, but on the other hand, were they to sit supine for eight days, while that notorious ruffian raided and plundered and murdered at will all over the country.
The knot of the difficulty however was cut, as is frequently the case, by circumstances. Each movement against him, undertaken with great promptitude and spirit, resulted in failure, whereat Upward, and others interested in the fate of the hostage rejoiced. It was not likely that such a ruthless barbarian as Umar Khan was known to be, would allow his prisoner to be taken out of his hands alive—no, not for a moment—whereas having kept faith so far he might do so until the end, especially if a handsomebaksheeshwas added to the stipulated sum. After that, the sooner he was caught and hanged the better.
Meanwhile the affair caused great excitement in the outlying parts, and not a little scare. Outlying shooting parties deemed it advisable to return and some of the railway employés on the lonely stations along the line—natives or Eurasians mostly—resigned their posts in panic, fearing lest a similar fate should overtake themselves. On the arrival of Bhallu Khan some news was gleaned, but not much. The Ghazis had hung about the Kachîn valley for a day or two, and had looted the forest bungalow—refraining, however, from firing it. Then they seemed to have disappeared entirely, and if he had any sort of inkling of their probable destination, Bhallu Khan, a Baluchi himself, could not or would not reveal it.
Chapter Seventeen.In the Enemy’s Hand.For a while the scowling barbarian contemplated Campian from under his shaggy brows. Then he gave an order to his followers. There stepped forward a man. This fellow had a villainous cast of countenance and a squint. He was of mixed blood, being a cross between Baluch and Punjâbi. He had been at one time achuprassiin a Government office, and talked English fairly well.“Chief say—you know who he is?” he began.“Can’t say I do.”“Chief say—you ever see him before?”“Can’t be sure of that either. Yet, I have an idea I saw him once while having a friendly talk with the Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan.”At mention of the Sirdar’s name, a faint show of interest seemed to come into the saturnine features of those around. Then the interpreter went on:“Dis chief—he Umar Khan.”The interest wherewith he would have received this announcement was dashed with a feeling as of the last glimmer of hope extinguished. It was bad enough to know that he was in the power of a revengeful barbarian with every motive for nourishing a deadly grudge against himself, but that this man should turn out to be the famous outlaw, whose savage and cruel nature was a matter of notoriety—well, he felt as good as dead already.Now he recognised that Umar Khan’s object in leading the Ghazi outbreak was not merely that of indiscriminate bloodshed, or even plunder. It was to get possession of himself—for the purpose of wreaking some deadly vengeance which he shuddered to contemplate—and well he might.“Tell Umar Khan,” he said, “that the money we have promised him will be punctually paid—and that when I am back among my friends again in Shâlalai I will add to it another two thousand rupees.”The outlaw chief received the rendering of this with a contemptuous grunt, and continued to glare none the less vindictively upon his prisoner. Then he gave certain orders, in the result of which those who had horses prepared to mount them, the remainder following on foot; for those Marris who had been surprised into participating in the massacre had now decided to cast in their lot with Umar Khan. A steed was also provided for Campian, but over and above being an inferior beast, a check rein, held by one of his custodians, was passed through the bit.Before they set forth, however, the leader issued another order, and in the result there stepped out from the stationmaster’s house two men. To his surprise the hostage recognised in these Bhallu Khan and the other forest guard. So these were the traitors? These had brought this crew of cut-throat murderers down upon them—and would share in the spoil. Such was his first thought, but he had never made a greater mistake in his life; the fact being that the two foresters were as innocent of complicity as he himself. They had been squatting outside the station after bidding farewell to their official superior. As fellow countrymen and fellow believers, the Ghazis had refrained from putting them to the sword, but had ordered them to remain within the outbuilding while the work of blood and plunder proceeded—and neither to come forth nor to look forth on pain of death. Now they were released. But first Umar Khan treated them to a long harangue, to which they listened with profound attention.Campian—hailing the man who had acted as interpreter—told him to ask the chief if he might write a line to the Colonel Sahib and send it by the foresters. A curt refusal was returned, and he was ordered to mount.As the band receded over the plain, from its midst he could see the white figures of the two foresters moving along the platform—but no others. Yes—he could. He could make out Vivien’s figure. He thought he knew what was in her mind as she strained her glance over that amount of space, if haply she might distinguish him in that throng of retreating forms—and it seemed to him that their very souls went forth to each other and met in blissful reconciliation. Then all was shut from his gaze. The band was entering the black portal of a greattangi.The sight of its smooth rock walls brought back the recollection of that other day, and the result was, on the whole, a cheering one. Then how sore had been his strait. He had come through it, however. Why not again?At sundown they halted, and spreading their chuddas and putting off their shoes, the whole band proceeded to perform their devotions in most approved fashion. Behind them lay the mangled remains of their unoffending and defenceless victims, slaughtered in cold blood; but then these were heathens and infidels, and to slay such was a meritorious act. So these sons of the desert and the mountain prayed in the direction of Mecca with enhanced faith and fervour.Throughout half the night they travelled onward. Onward and upward, for they seemed to be ascending higher and higher among the jagged mountain crests. The wind blew piercingly cold, and Campian shivered. They threw him an old poshteen or fur-lined coat, and this he was glad to pull round him in spite of qualms lest it should already be more or less thickly populated. Soon after midnight they halted, and building a large fire under an overhanging rock, lay down beside it. Campian, worn out with fatigue and the reaction after the day’s excitement, went into a heavy dreamless sleep.He was awakened by a push. It seemed as though he had been asleep but five minutes, whereas in point of fact it must have been nearly midday, so high in the heavens was the sun. He looked forth. Piles of mountains in chaotic masses heaved up around; all stones and slag; no trees, no herbage worthy of the name. One of the Baluchis handed him a bowl of rice, cold and insipid, and a chunk of mahogany looking substance, which smelt abominably rancid—and which he turned from with loathing. It was in fact a hunk of dried and salted goat flesh. Having got outside the first article of diet, he remembered ruefully how he had been cheerful over the prospect of seeing something of the inner life of the lively Baluchi, but this, as a beginning, was decidedly discouraging.This appeared to be a favourite halting place, judging from the old marks of fires everywhere around, and a better hiding place it seemed hard to imagine, such an eyrie was it, perched up here out of reach, where one might pass below again and again and never suspect its existence. The band seemed in no hurry, resting there the entire day. Part of this the hostage turned to account by trying to win over the good offices of the squint-eyed cross-breed.This worthy, who rejoiced in the name of Buktiar Khan, was not indisposed to talk. He too was promised a largesse when the prisoner should be set at liberty.“What you do to dis chief?” he said, in reply to this.“Eh? I don’t quite follow.”“Dis chief, he hate you very much. What you do to him?”“Oh, I see,” and the prisoner’s heart sank. His chances of escaping death—and that in some ghastly and barbarous form—looked slighter and slighter. “I never harmed him, that I know of for certain. I never harmed anyone except in fair fight. If he has suffered any injury from me it must be in that way. Tell him, Buktiar, if you get the opportunity, and if you don’t, make the opportunity—that a man with the name for bravery and dash that he has made does not bear a grudge over injuries received in fair and open fight. You understand?”“I un’stand—when you slow speak. Baluchi, he very cross man. You strike him, he strike you. You kill him, his one brother, two brother, kill you, if not dis year, then next year.”A rude interruption there and then occurred to bear out the other’s words. Campian, who was seated on the ground at the time, felt himself seized from behind and flung violently on his back. Half-a-dozen sinewy ruffians had laid hold of him, and he was powerless to move. Bending over him was the savage face of Umar Khan, stamped with the same expression of diabolical malignity as it had worn when he had first beheld it.“O dog,” began the outlaw, pushing his now helpless prisoner with his foot, “dost guess what I am going to do with thee?”“Put an end to me, I suppose,” answered Campian wearily, when this had been rendered. “But it doesn’t seem fair. I yielded myself up on the understanding that I should only be detained until the five thousand rupees were paid. And now I have promised you two thousand more. What do you gain by my death?”Buktiar duly translated this, and the Baluchi answered:“What do I gain? Revenge—blood for blood. But hearken. I had intended to strike off thy head, but thou shalt have thy life. Yet if Umar Khan must walk lame for the remainder of his life, why should the dog whose bite rendered him lame walk straight? Answer that, dog—pig—answer that,” growled the barbarian, grinding his teeth, and working himself up into a frenzy of vindictive rage. “Tell him what I said just now, Buktiar—that a brave man never bears malice for wounds received in fair fight,” was the answer.But this appeal was lost on Umar Khan. He spat contemptuously and went on.“I had meant to strike off thy head, thou pig, but will be merciful. As I walk lame, thou shalt walk lame. I will strike off both thy feet instead.”A cold perspiration broke out from every pore as this was translated to the unfortunate man. Even if he survived the shock and agony of this frightful mutilation, the prospect of going through life maimed and helpless, and all that it involved—Oh, it was too terrible.“I would rather die at once,” he said. “It will come to that, for I shall bleed to death in any case.”“Bleed to death? No, no. Fire is a goodhakîm,” (Physician), replied the Baluchi, with the laugh of a fiend. “Turn thy head and look.”Campian was just able to do this, though otherwise powerless to move. Now he noticed that the fire near which they had been sitting had been blown into a glow, and an old sword blade which had been thrust in it was now red hot. The perspiration streamed from every pore at the prospect of the appalling torment to which they were about to subject him. Not even the thought that this was part of the forfeit he had to pay for the saving of Vivien availed to strengthen him. Unheroic as it may sound, there was no room for other emotion in his mind than that of horror and shrinking fear. The ring of savage, turbaned countenances thrust forward to witness his agony were to him at that moment as the faces of devils in hell.Umar Khan drew his tulwar and laid its keen edge against one of the helpless man’s ankles.“Which foot shall come off first?” he snarled. “You, Mohammed, have the hot iron ready.”He swung the great curved blade aloft, then down it came with a swish. Was his foot really cut off? thought the sufferer. It had been done so painlessly. Ah, but the shock had dulled the agony! That would follow immediately.Again the curved blade swung aloft. This time it was quietly lowered.“Let him rise now,” said Umar Khan, with a devilish expression of countenance which was something between a grin and a scowl.Those who held him down sprang off. In a dazed sort of way Campian rose to a sitting posture and stared stupidly at his feet. No mutilated stump spouting blood met his gaze. The vindictive savage had been playing horribly upon his fears. He was unharmed.“I have another thought,” said Umar Khan, returning his sword to its scabbard. “I will leave thee the use of thy feet until to-morrow morning. Then thou shalt walk no more.”The prospect of a surgical amputation, even when carried out with all the accessories of scientific skill, is not conducive to a placid frame of mind, by any means. What then must be that of a cruel mutilation, with all the accompaniments of sickening torture, for no other purpose than to gratify the vindictive spite of a barbarian? The reaction from the acute mental agony he had undergone had rendered Campian strangely helpless. It was a weariful feeling, as though he would fain have done with life, and in his desperation he glanced furtively around to see if it would not be possible to snatch a weapon and die, fighting hard. A desire for revenge upon the ruffian who had subjected him to such outrage then came uppermost. Could he but seize a tulwar, Umar Khan should be his first victim, even though he himself were cut to pieces the next moment. But he had no opportunity. The Baluchis guarded their weapons too carefully.“Does that devil really mean what he says, Buktiar?” he took occasion to ask, “or is he only trying to scare me?”“He mean it,” replied the cross-breed, somewhat gloomily, for were the prisoner injured the prospect of his own reward seemed to vanish. “Once he cut off one man’s feet—and hands too—and leave him on the mountain. Plenty wolf that part—dey eat him.”This was cheering. How desperate was his strait, here, in the power of these cruel savages—in the heart of a ghastly mountain waste that a month or two ago he had never heard of—even now he did not know where he was. Their route the day before had been so tortuous that he could not guess how near or how far they had travelled from any locality known to him.“I will give you a thousand rupees, Buktiar, if you help me to escape,” he said. “If you can’t help me, but do nothing to prevent me, I’ll give you five hundred.”The cross-breed squinted diabolically as he strove to puzzle out how he was to earn this reward. Like most Asiatics he was acquisitive and money loving, and to be promised a rich reward, and yet see no prospect of being able to earn it, was tantalising to the last degree. He shook his head in his perplexity.“Money good, life better,” he said. “Dey see me help you—then I dead. What I do?”Then Umar Khan spoke angrily, and in the result Buktiar left the side of the prisoner, with whom he had no further opportunity of converse that day.The night drew down in gusty darkness. A misty drizzle filled the air, and it was piercingly cold. The Baluchis huddled round their fires, having lighted two, and presently their deep-toned drowsy conversation ceased. One by one they dropped off to sleep.Then a desperate resolve took hold of Campian’s mind. He was unbound, and, to all appearances, unguarded—why should he not make the attempt? Any death was preferable to the horrible prospect which morning light would bring. He might be cut down or shot in the attempt. Equally great was the probability of coming to a violent end among the cliffs and chasms of this savage mountain waste. No sooner resolved upon than he arose, and, drawing his poshteen tighter round him, walked deliberately forth; stepping over the unconscious forms of the sleeping Baluchis. His very boldness aided him. None moved. In a moment he was alone in the darkness outside.A thrill of exultation ran through his veins. Yet what was there to exult over? He was alone upon the wild mountain side—unarmed, and without food—in a perfectly unknown land. Every step he took fairly bristled with peril. The wind increased in volume; the rain pattered down harder. He could not see an inch in front of him. Any moment might find him plunging from some dizzy height to dash himself into a thousand fragments and Eternity. Here again his very desperation saved him. Trusting entirely and blindly to luck, he skirted perils that would have engulfed a more careful and less desperate man. Anything rather than a repetition of his experience of that day.On through the darkness—on ever. The howl of a wolf ranging the mountain side was now and then borne to his ears upon the wind and rain: and more than once the dislodgment of a loose stone or two, and its far away thud, after a momentary space of silence, told that he was skirting some vast height, whether of cliff ortangi—but even that failed to chill his blood. He was moving—his energies were in action. That was the great thing. He was no longer cold now. The exertion had warmed him. He felt more and more exultant.Yet with morning light his enemies would be upon his track. Here, among their native rocks and crags, what chance had he against these persistent, untiring hillmen? The savage hatred of Umar Khan, enhanced by being deprived of a sure and certain prey, would strain every source to effect his recapture. Well, he had the long night before him, and the darkness and turbulence of the night were all in his favour.If only he had some idea of his locality. The tidings of the outrage would have reached Shâlalai, and by now a strong military force would have been moved up to Mehriâb station to investigate the scene of the massacre, and follow up its perpetrators. But he had no idea in which direction Mehriâb station lay, or what mountain heights might have to be crossed before he could gain it.Morning dawned. Weary eyed, haggard, exhausted with many hours of the roughest kind of walking, stumbling over boulders and stones, bruised, faint for want of food, the fugitive still held on. He was descending into a long, deep valley, whose sides were covered with juniper forest. Shelter, at any rate, its sparse growth might afford him. Ha! He knew now where he was. It was the Kachîn valley.Yes, in the widening dawn every familiar feature was made more plain. He had come over the highkotalwhich he and Bhallu Khan had climbed to when stalking markhôr. There was the spur which shut out Chirria Bach, and away up yonder the forest bungalow. Could he gain the latter he could obtain food, of which he stood sorely in need, as well as arms and ammunition. Some of the servants were still there. They would have heard nothing of the tragedy on the railway line, and would be momentarily expecting the return of the household. Turning to the right he struck off straight for the house, full of renewed hope.But that huge, practical joke entitled Life is, in its pitiless irony, fond of dashing such. He had barely travelled half a mile when a rattle of stones on the mountain side above arrested his attention. A score of turbaned figures were clambering down the rocks. Spread out in a half circle formation they were nearly upon him. There was no escape. Umar Khan and his savage freebooters were not going back on their reputation just yet. The fugitive’s long night of peril, and labour, and perseverance, had all gone for nothing. Several of the Ghazis were already pointing their rifles, and in loud, harsh tones were calling on him to halt.
For a while the scowling barbarian contemplated Campian from under his shaggy brows. Then he gave an order to his followers. There stepped forward a man. This fellow had a villainous cast of countenance and a squint. He was of mixed blood, being a cross between Baluch and Punjâbi. He had been at one time achuprassiin a Government office, and talked English fairly well.
“Chief say—you know who he is?” he began.
“Can’t say I do.”
“Chief say—you ever see him before?”
“Can’t be sure of that either. Yet, I have an idea I saw him once while having a friendly talk with the Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan.”
At mention of the Sirdar’s name, a faint show of interest seemed to come into the saturnine features of those around. Then the interpreter went on:
“Dis chief—he Umar Khan.”
The interest wherewith he would have received this announcement was dashed with a feeling as of the last glimmer of hope extinguished. It was bad enough to know that he was in the power of a revengeful barbarian with every motive for nourishing a deadly grudge against himself, but that this man should turn out to be the famous outlaw, whose savage and cruel nature was a matter of notoriety—well, he felt as good as dead already.
Now he recognised that Umar Khan’s object in leading the Ghazi outbreak was not merely that of indiscriminate bloodshed, or even plunder. It was to get possession of himself—for the purpose of wreaking some deadly vengeance which he shuddered to contemplate—and well he might.
“Tell Umar Khan,” he said, “that the money we have promised him will be punctually paid—and that when I am back among my friends again in Shâlalai I will add to it another two thousand rupees.”
The outlaw chief received the rendering of this with a contemptuous grunt, and continued to glare none the less vindictively upon his prisoner. Then he gave certain orders, in the result of which those who had horses prepared to mount them, the remainder following on foot; for those Marris who had been surprised into participating in the massacre had now decided to cast in their lot with Umar Khan. A steed was also provided for Campian, but over and above being an inferior beast, a check rein, held by one of his custodians, was passed through the bit.
Before they set forth, however, the leader issued another order, and in the result there stepped out from the stationmaster’s house two men. To his surprise the hostage recognised in these Bhallu Khan and the other forest guard. So these were the traitors? These had brought this crew of cut-throat murderers down upon them—and would share in the spoil. Such was his first thought, but he had never made a greater mistake in his life; the fact being that the two foresters were as innocent of complicity as he himself. They had been squatting outside the station after bidding farewell to their official superior. As fellow countrymen and fellow believers, the Ghazis had refrained from putting them to the sword, but had ordered them to remain within the outbuilding while the work of blood and plunder proceeded—and neither to come forth nor to look forth on pain of death. Now they were released. But first Umar Khan treated them to a long harangue, to which they listened with profound attention.
Campian—hailing the man who had acted as interpreter—told him to ask the chief if he might write a line to the Colonel Sahib and send it by the foresters. A curt refusal was returned, and he was ordered to mount.
As the band receded over the plain, from its midst he could see the white figures of the two foresters moving along the platform—but no others. Yes—he could. He could make out Vivien’s figure. He thought he knew what was in her mind as she strained her glance over that amount of space, if haply she might distinguish him in that throng of retreating forms—and it seemed to him that their very souls went forth to each other and met in blissful reconciliation. Then all was shut from his gaze. The band was entering the black portal of a greattangi.
The sight of its smooth rock walls brought back the recollection of that other day, and the result was, on the whole, a cheering one. Then how sore had been his strait. He had come through it, however. Why not again?
At sundown they halted, and spreading their chuddas and putting off their shoes, the whole band proceeded to perform their devotions in most approved fashion. Behind them lay the mangled remains of their unoffending and defenceless victims, slaughtered in cold blood; but then these were heathens and infidels, and to slay such was a meritorious act. So these sons of the desert and the mountain prayed in the direction of Mecca with enhanced faith and fervour.
Throughout half the night they travelled onward. Onward and upward, for they seemed to be ascending higher and higher among the jagged mountain crests. The wind blew piercingly cold, and Campian shivered. They threw him an old poshteen or fur-lined coat, and this he was glad to pull round him in spite of qualms lest it should already be more or less thickly populated. Soon after midnight they halted, and building a large fire under an overhanging rock, lay down beside it. Campian, worn out with fatigue and the reaction after the day’s excitement, went into a heavy dreamless sleep.
He was awakened by a push. It seemed as though he had been asleep but five minutes, whereas in point of fact it must have been nearly midday, so high in the heavens was the sun. He looked forth. Piles of mountains in chaotic masses heaved up around; all stones and slag; no trees, no herbage worthy of the name. One of the Baluchis handed him a bowl of rice, cold and insipid, and a chunk of mahogany looking substance, which smelt abominably rancid—and which he turned from with loathing. It was in fact a hunk of dried and salted goat flesh. Having got outside the first article of diet, he remembered ruefully how he had been cheerful over the prospect of seeing something of the inner life of the lively Baluchi, but this, as a beginning, was decidedly discouraging.
This appeared to be a favourite halting place, judging from the old marks of fires everywhere around, and a better hiding place it seemed hard to imagine, such an eyrie was it, perched up here out of reach, where one might pass below again and again and never suspect its existence. The band seemed in no hurry, resting there the entire day. Part of this the hostage turned to account by trying to win over the good offices of the squint-eyed cross-breed.
This worthy, who rejoiced in the name of Buktiar Khan, was not indisposed to talk. He too was promised a largesse when the prisoner should be set at liberty.
“What you do to dis chief?” he said, in reply to this.
“Eh? I don’t quite follow.”
“Dis chief, he hate you very much. What you do to him?”
“Oh, I see,” and the prisoner’s heart sank. His chances of escaping death—and that in some ghastly and barbarous form—looked slighter and slighter. “I never harmed him, that I know of for certain. I never harmed anyone except in fair fight. If he has suffered any injury from me it must be in that way. Tell him, Buktiar, if you get the opportunity, and if you don’t, make the opportunity—that a man with the name for bravery and dash that he has made does not bear a grudge over injuries received in fair and open fight. You understand?”
“I un’stand—when you slow speak. Baluchi, he very cross man. You strike him, he strike you. You kill him, his one brother, two brother, kill you, if not dis year, then next year.”
A rude interruption there and then occurred to bear out the other’s words. Campian, who was seated on the ground at the time, felt himself seized from behind and flung violently on his back. Half-a-dozen sinewy ruffians had laid hold of him, and he was powerless to move. Bending over him was the savage face of Umar Khan, stamped with the same expression of diabolical malignity as it had worn when he had first beheld it.
“O dog,” began the outlaw, pushing his now helpless prisoner with his foot, “dost guess what I am going to do with thee?”
“Put an end to me, I suppose,” answered Campian wearily, when this had been rendered. “But it doesn’t seem fair. I yielded myself up on the understanding that I should only be detained until the five thousand rupees were paid. And now I have promised you two thousand more. What do you gain by my death?”
Buktiar duly translated this, and the Baluchi answered:
“What do I gain? Revenge—blood for blood. But hearken. I had intended to strike off thy head, but thou shalt have thy life. Yet if Umar Khan must walk lame for the remainder of his life, why should the dog whose bite rendered him lame walk straight? Answer that, dog—pig—answer that,” growled the barbarian, grinding his teeth, and working himself up into a frenzy of vindictive rage. “Tell him what I said just now, Buktiar—that a brave man never bears malice for wounds received in fair fight,” was the answer.
But this appeal was lost on Umar Khan. He spat contemptuously and went on.
“I had meant to strike off thy head, thou pig, but will be merciful. As I walk lame, thou shalt walk lame. I will strike off both thy feet instead.”
A cold perspiration broke out from every pore as this was translated to the unfortunate man. Even if he survived the shock and agony of this frightful mutilation, the prospect of going through life maimed and helpless, and all that it involved—Oh, it was too terrible.
“I would rather die at once,” he said. “It will come to that, for I shall bleed to death in any case.”
“Bleed to death? No, no. Fire is a goodhakîm,” (Physician), replied the Baluchi, with the laugh of a fiend. “Turn thy head and look.”
Campian was just able to do this, though otherwise powerless to move. Now he noticed that the fire near which they had been sitting had been blown into a glow, and an old sword blade which had been thrust in it was now red hot. The perspiration streamed from every pore at the prospect of the appalling torment to which they were about to subject him. Not even the thought that this was part of the forfeit he had to pay for the saving of Vivien availed to strengthen him. Unheroic as it may sound, there was no room for other emotion in his mind than that of horror and shrinking fear. The ring of savage, turbaned countenances thrust forward to witness his agony were to him at that moment as the faces of devils in hell.
Umar Khan drew his tulwar and laid its keen edge against one of the helpless man’s ankles.
“Which foot shall come off first?” he snarled. “You, Mohammed, have the hot iron ready.”
He swung the great curved blade aloft, then down it came with a swish. Was his foot really cut off? thought the sufferer. It had been done so painlessly. Ah, but the shock had dulled the agony! That would follow immediately.
Again the curved blade swung aloft. This time it was quietly lowered.
“Let him rise now,” said Umar Khan, with a devilish expression of countenance which was something between a grin and a scowl.
Those who held him down sprang off. In a dazed sort of way Campian rose to a sitting posture and stared stupidly at his feet. No mutilated stump spouting blood met his gaze. The vindictive savage had been playing horribly upon his fears. He was unharmed.
“I have another thought,” said Umar Khan, returning his sword to its scabbard. “I will leave thee the use of thy feet until to-morrow morning. Then thou shalt walk no more.”
The prospect of a surgical amputation, even when carried out with all the accessories of scientific skill, is not conducive to a placid frame of mind, by any means. What then must be that of a cruel mutilation, with all the accompaniments of sickening torture, for no other purpose than to gratify the vindictive spite of a barbarian? The reaction from the acute mental agony he had undergone had rendered Campian strangely helpless. It was a weariful feeling, as though he would fain have done with life, and in his desperation he glanced furtively around to see if it would not be possible to snatch a weapon and die, fighting hard. A desire for revenge upon the ruffian who had subjected him to such outrage then came uppermost. Could he but seize a tulwar, Umar Khan should be his first victim, even though he himself were cut to pieces the next moment. But he had no opportunity. The Baluchis guarded their weapons too carefully.
“Does that devil really mean what he says, Buktiar?” he took occasion to ask, “or is he only trying to scare me?”
“He mean it,” replied the cross-breed, somewhat gloomily, for were the prisoner injured the prospect of his own reward seemed to vanish. “Once he cut off one man’s feet—and hands too—and leave him on the mountain. Plenty wolf that part—dey eat him.”
This was cheering. How desperate was his strait, here, in the power of these cruel savages—in the heart of a ghastly mountain waste that a month or two ago he had never heard of—even now he did not know where he was. Their route the day before had been so tortuous that he could not guess how near or how far they had travelled from any locality known to him.
“I will give you a thousand rupees, Buktiar, if you help me to escape,” he said. “If you can’t help me, but do nothing to prevent me, I’ll give you five hundred.”
The cross-breed squinted diabolically as he strove to puzzle out how he was to earn this reward. Like most Asiatics he was acquisitive and money loving, and to be promised a rich reward, and yet see no prospect of being able to earn it, was tantalising to the last degree. He shook his head in his perplexity.
“Money good, life better,” he said. “Dey see me help you—then I dead. What I do?”
Then Umar Khan spoke angrily, and in the result Buktiar left the side of the prisoner, with whom he had no further opportunity of converse that day.
The night drew down in gusty darkness. A misty drizzle filled the air, and it was piercingly cold. The Baluchis huddled round their fires, having lighted two, and presently their deep-toned drowsy conversation ceased. One by one they dropped off to sleep.
Then a desperate resolve took hold of Campian’s mind. He was unbound, and, to all appearances, unguarded—why should he not make the attempt? Any death was preferable to the horrible prospect which morning light would bring. He might be cut down or shot in the attempt. Equally great was the probability of coming to a violent end among the cliffs and chasms of this savage mountain waste. No sooner resolved upon than he arose, and, drawing his poshteen tighter round him, walked deliberately forth; stepping over the unconscious forms of the sleeping Baluchis. His very boldness aided him. None moved. In a moment he was alone in the darkness outside.
A thrill of exultation ran through his veins. Yet what was there to exult over? He was alone upon the wild mountain side—unarmed, and without food—in a perfectly unknown land. Every step he took fairly bristled with peril. The wind increased in volume; the rain pattered down harder. He could not see an inch in front of him. Any moment might find him plunging from some dizzy height to dash himself into a thousand fragments and Eternity. Here again his very desperation saved him. Trusting entirely and blindly to luck, he skirted perils that would have engulfed a more careful and less desperate man. Anything rather than a repetition of his experience of that day.
On through the darkness—on ever. The howl of a wolf ranging the mountain side was now and then borne to his ears upon the wind and rain: and more than once the dislodgment of a loose stone or two, and its far away thud, after a momentary space of silence, told that he was skirting some vast height, whether of cliff ortangi—but even that failed to chill his blood. He was moving—his energies were in action. That was the great thing. He was no longer cold now. The exertion had warmed him. He felt more and more exultant.
Yet with morning light his enemies would be upon his track. Here, among their native rocks and crags, what chance had he against these persistent, untiring hillmen? The savage hatred of Umar Khan, enhanced by being deprived of a sure and certain prey, would strain every source to effect his recapture. Well, he had the long night before him, and the darkness and turbulence of the night were all in his favour.
If only he had some idea of his locality. The tidings of the outrage would have reached Shâlalai, and by now a strong military force would have been moved up to Mehriâb station to investigate the scene of the massacre, and follow up its perpetrators. But he had no idea in which direction Mehriâb station lay, or what mountain heights might have to be crossed before he could gain it.
Morning dawned. Weary eyed, haggard, exhausted with many hours of the roughest kind of walking, stumbling over boulders and stones, bruised, faint for want of food, the fugitive still held on. He was descending into a long, deep valley, whose sides were covered with juniper forest. Shelter, at any rate, its sparse growth might afford him. Ha! He knew now where he was. It was the Kachîn valley.
Yes, in the widening dawn every familiar feature was made more plain. He had come over the highkotalwhich he and Bhallu Khan had climbed to when stalking markhôr. There was the spur which shut out Chirria Bach, and away up yonder the forest bungalow. Could he gain the latter he could obtain food, of which he stood sorely in need, as well as arms and ammunition. Some of the servants were still there. They would have heard nothing of the tragedy on the railway line, and would be momentarily expecting the return of the household. Turning to the right he struck off straight for the house, full of renewed hope.
But that huge, practical joke entitled Life is, in its pitiless irony, fond of dashing such. He had barely travelled half a mile when a rattle of stones on the mountain side above arrested his attention. A score of turbaned figures were clambering down the rocks. Spread out in a half circle formation they were nearly upon him. There was no escape. Umar Khan and his savage freebooters were not going back on their reputation just yet. The fugitive’s long night of peril, and labour, and perseverance, had all gone for nothing. Several of the Ghazis were already pointing their rifles, and in loud, harsh tones were calling on him to halt.
Chapter Eighteen.“Mohammed Er Rasoul Allah?”“Ping-ping!” The bullets sang around him—splattering the rocks with blue lead marks. Not for a moment did he think of stopping. They might shoot him dead, but alive he would not yield. Besides there was one last desperate chance, and he meant to try it.The markhôr cave! A final spurt would bring him to that. It was just round yon shoulder of cliff, which at present concealed it. His pursuers would not even see him enter it, and there were smaller holes and crannies around which would puzzle them. Besides, he remembered there were superstitions attaching to it. These might possibly deter them from entering at all. It was a straw, but a slender one.One great and final effort. He penetrated its normally forbidding but now welcome blackness, and sank down panting on the rock-floor. For some minutes he thus crouched, listening intently. He heard the rattle of stones outside; now and then the tones of a deep voice, or the clink of rifle-barrel or scabbard against the rock. The search was proceeding right merrily, yet, why had it not begun here?Some minutes went by. To the hunted man, crouching there, they meant hours. Then the sound of steps approaching. They were going to search the markhôr cave. His last chance had failed.The footsteps outside halted. Then he heard the voice of their owner calling, and receiving answers from several other voices. He was calling to his comrades to come and aid in the search. Superstition, evidently, disinclined him to prosecute it alone. It could not be the fugitive that he feared, seeing that the latter was unarmed, and probably quite exhausted.Then a wild and daring idea came into Campian’s mind—in fact, so utterly desperate a plan that were he allowed time to think of it, the bare thought would suffice to send a cold shiver through his frame. The chasm—into which he had so nearly stepped on the occasion of his first and last visit to this place! The chasm—into whose black depths he and Vivien had stood gazing, side by side. It was his last and only chance, but—what a chance!His matchbox contained a few wax vestas. The pursuers, probably still collecting to explore the cave in force, had not begun to enter. Groping his way round a rock corner which would partially or entirely shield the light from those without, he struck a vesta, deadening, so far as he was able, the sound with his hollowed hands. It flamed forth—a mere flicker in the cavernous gloom. But it was sufficient for his purpose.There lay the black rift, like the great serpent for which he had at first taken it. He was right at its brink. Then flinging into it the spent vesta, he grasped the edge and let himself carefully down, hanging by the grasp of his two hands alone on the lip of the fissure, in the pitchy darkness over that awful unfathomable depth which seemed to go down into the very heart of the earth.The tension was fearful. He must let go. Every muscle was strained and cracking. And now a glow of light told that his enemies were entering with torches. Ha! he had overlooked that contingency. The light would reveal his strained fingers grasping the rock. One cut of a tulwar—and—Then his feet came in contact with something—something that clinked faintly as with the sound of metal. Groping carefully with both feet, lo! they closed on what felt like an iron chain.Heavens! it was a chain—a massive iron chain depending in some way from the rock above. In the increasing glow of the torches he could make out that. Here was a Heaven-sent chance. Grasping the great links firmly with knees and feet, he let go, first with one hand, then the other, and seized the chain. It, with its rough links, afforded a safe and solid resting place for a time.The pursuers had now arrived right at the brink. Their bizarre, turbaned shadows on the opposite rock wall looked gnome-like in the smoky glare of the torches. But in the said glare he recognised, with a rush of hope, that unless they peered right over they could not see him, for the chain hung from an iron bolt let into the rock, which here projected just above his head.The weird shadows on the rock danced and tossed, the guttering light grotesquely exaggerating every movement. He who hung there could hear the deep-toned voices right over him. The chain to which he clung swayed and shivered with the concussion of the tramp of many feet above. They held out a torch or two over the abyss, and dropped a few pebbles down—even as he himself had done when with Bhallu Khan. He could hear their exclamations as the stones struck far below with a faint thud. Could he have understood them, his relief would have been greater still. Among them, however, he thought to recognise the harsh, snarling voice of Umar Khan.“If the dog has gone down here,” that worthy was saying, “why, then, he is already suffering the torments of hell. If he entered this place at all, how should he not have fallen in, seeing that it is darker than night within the cave, and this hole is a pitfall to the unwary, and a very entrance to the abode of devils?”“In here he entered without doubt,” said Ihalil Mohammed, “for every other hole have we searched thoroughly.”To this the others assented. Their prisoner had undoubtedly given them the slip. Dead or alive he would never be seen again.All this the hunted man, thus hanging there, could not understand. Would they never give up the search, he was wondering. Well for him that he was in hard form and training—yet he was not so young as he used to be, he recognised bitterly, as every joint and muscle ached with the convulsive tension involved in thus supporting his own weight, for an apparently unlimited period, entirely by compression. Well for him, too, that the links were rough with red, flaky rust, thus affording increased facility of hold. Yet would these hell hounds never give up the search?They were forced to at last. The red glow of the torches grew fainter, then died out—so, too, did the sound of footsteps and voices. Campian was in pitch darkness, suspended over this awful and unknown depth.Now that the more active peril was withdrawn, and his attention thus drawn inwards, he was able to think, to realise the full horror of his position. How was he to return? Cramped, aching, exhausted, he felt as though he could hardly hold on, let alone work his way upward. His blood ran cold too as he realised what would have been his fate but for this solid and substantial means of support right to his hand. Half a yard further on either side, and—No, it would not bear thinking of, and no sooner had he arrived at this conclusion than one foot, unconsciously lowered, came in contact with something.Something hard, wide, horizontal it was, for as he cautiously increased the pressure he felt it sway and tilt slightly. Then, with equal caution, he lowered the other foot on the other side of the chain. It, too, met with like support. Carefully, with both feet, he increased the pressure so as to test the weight, still preserving his hand-hold. Nothing gave way, and his heart leaped within him as he found he had secured a firm resting place whereon to recruit his strength against his return climb.And now, safe for the time being, his thoughts were busy with speculation as to this structure hung here in the black depths of the gulf. A great massive iron chain supporting a convenient swinging platform, had not found its way there expressly to afford him a secure refuge in the hour of peril, that much was certain. Then his nerves thrilled and tingled as the conjecture uttered by Vivien in this very place came back to his mind: “What if the things are at the bottom of that cleft?” Heavens! Had this structure to do with the hidden treasure—the priceless ruby sword?Instinctively he sought his matchbox. No. That would be madness. His pursuers might not even have left the entrance of the cave. Not for hours would it be safe to strike a light.And for hours, indeed, he hung there and waited. He groped around the platform, first with one foot then with the other, and it dawned upon him that the structure was no ordinary board, or it would have tilted. It was a solid block of wood—no—a box.A box? A chest! That was it. What if it held the treasure itself? And then by a strange fatality the conviction that this would prove to be the case took firm hold of his mind—and if so, by what a terrible sequence of tragic events had he been constituted its finder. Would not the recent dread experiences be worth going through to have led up to this splendid discovery? All would yet be well. The best of life was before him yet Vivien’s last look, as he descended from their place of refuge to purchase her safety by delivering himself into the hands of their enemies, burned warm within his soul. When he returned safe, as one who returned from the dead, what would not her welcome be? Surely the glow of the old days would be as nothing to this.These and other such thoughts coursed through his mind as he hung there in the pitchy blackness—and indeed it was well for him that such was the case. Nothing is more utterly unnerving than any space of time spent in an absolutely silent and rayless gloom, but when, in addition to that, the subject is swung on a hanging platform, whose very stability he can vouch for with no degree of certitude, over a chasm of unknown depth, and that for hours, why, he needs a mental stimulus of a pretty strong and exalted type.Judging it safe at last to do so, Campian struck a light. Feeble enough it seemed in the vast gloom, and not until it had burned out were his eyes capable of seeing anything after being for hours in black darkness. Then, stooping as low as he dared, he lit another. Yes. It was even as he had conjectured. The platform he was standing on was a box or chest.It was of very old and hard grained wood, almost black, and clamped together with solid brass bindings. It showed no sign of having suffered from the ravages of time, and the upper part, which was all he could see, was covered with Arabic characters, curiously inlaid—probably texts from the Korân. He had no doubt but this was what had occupied so much of his thoughts, the hidden and forgotten treasure chest of the fugitive Durani chief, Dost Hussain Khan. Little is it to be wondered at if even there he felt thrilled with exultation as he remembered what priceless valuables it certainly contained.But that thrill of exultation sustained a rude shock—in fact died away. For happening to glance up while lighting another match it came home to him that whether the chest contained valuables or not, the probability that he would ever be in a position to put that contingency to the test was exceedingly slender; for to gain the brink of the chasm, and the outer air again, looked from there an absolute impossibility. The chain, and that which it supported, depended from a solid bolt let into the rock, but the latter overhung it in a cornice or lip, which projected nearly half a yard. He would never be able to worm himself over this. And then it came home to him that he was beginning to feel quite faint with hunger, and that his strength was leaving him fast.Well, the feat must be attempted. Lighting another match—and he had few left now—he sent a long steady look at the projection, the fastening of the chain, and the distance from the edge. Then he began his climb.This was not great. The rock lip projected only about half a yard above his hands at their highest tension. He drew himself up. He was under the projection—groping outward along it in the darkness. Now he gripped it firmly with both hands—still clinging to the chain with feet and legs. He was about to swing himself off. One hand half-slipped away. No, he could not do it. His strength failed him, likewise his nerve. He was barely able to seize the chain again and let himself down to the vantage ground of the box, where he stood literally trembling.This would not do at all. He must rest for a few moments and recruit his strength, must quell this shaky fit by sheer force of will. It could not be—he argued with himself—that he had come through all this, had made this royal discovery, by a chain of coincidences signal and tragic, only to fail at the last; to be swept into nothingness; to disappear from all human sight as completely as though dead and buried already. He was a bit of a fatalist, too, and this partially supported him now. If he was to come through safely, why he would — if not—! And with this thought, as by an inspiration, came another idea.He could never raise himself above the rock projection from which the chain hung—that much was certain. But—the point whence he had let himself down was only a foot to the right. There the edge did not overlap.Steadying his over-wrought nerves, he drew himself up once more. Holding on tightly he reached forth one hand. It grasped the brink. Carefully he felt along the hard rock. Yes—that would do. Now for it. He put forth the other hand.And now the moment was crucial. One arm was already along the floor above the edge. Campian’s fate hung in the balance there in the pitchy gloom. Beneath him all black darkness, death, horror, annihilation. The merest feather weight either way would turn the scale. He let go of the chain with his feet. A last and mighty effort, and—he was lying safe and sound on the rock-floor above; well nigh unconscious with exhaustion and the awful strain his nerves had undergone.For long he lay thus. Then the cravings of hunger became more than he could bear. Physical nature reasserted itself. He must obtain food at all risks. The forest bungalow was not far from that place. There he would find it.It must have been hours since he took refuge here. His enemies had surprised him just at daybreak; now it was high noon. Prudence counselled that he should wait until night—physical craving argued that by then he would hardly have strength left him to make his way anywhere; and the physical argument prevailed, as it ordinarily does.He stepped forth quickly and gained the shelter of the juniper forest. The glare of the sun blinded him, and the sparse foliage afforded but poor shade. He staggered along exhausted, yet full of renewed hope and resolution.But for the mental and bodily exhaustion which half dulled his faculties, he would have become aware of a peculiar nasal, droning sound a short distance in front of him. As it was he hardly heard it, or if so, missed its significance. When, however, he became alive to the latter it was too late.In a small open space, overhung on the further side by rocks, a score of turbaned figures were kneeling. They were in two rows, and, barefooted, were prostrating themselves in the approved method of the faithful at prayer. Then, rising, repeated, with one voice, their orisons, which were led by a single figure a little in advance of the rest. It was too late. With the first footfall of the intruder, round came several shaggy faces. The effect was magical. The entire band of fervid devotees sprang to its feet as one man. Tulwars whirled from their scabbards, and, in a moment, the intruder was surrounded. Well might the latter now despair. Well might he realise that the bitterness of death was indeed past. All that he had gone through was as nothing. He had walked, with his eyes open, right into the midst of his enemies, had placed, of his own act, his life in their hands. Foremost among the threatening, scowling countenances was the repulsive, exultant one of Umar Khan.“Ah! ah!” snarled this implacable savage, with a grin of exultation. “Lo, the sheep returns to the slaughter, for so wills it God.”“Allah?” repeated the destined victim, catching the last word. “Hearken, Moslem, în hearken!” he called out in Hindustani, eyeing with unconcern the uplifted sword of his arch enemy. Then, standing there in their midst, and facing in the direction they had been facing while at prayer, he extended both hands heavenward, and uttered in a loud, firm voice:“La illah il Allah,Mohammed er rasoul Allah!”A gasp of wonder went up from those who beheld. As by magic every weapon was lowered. Campian had professed the faith of Islam.For some moments these fanatical brigands stared stupidly at each other, then at the figure of the sometime infidel, but now believer. The spell was broken by their leader.“It is well!” he said, advancing upon Campian, and again raising his tulwar. “There is rejoicing in Paradise now, for in a moment it will be the richer for a newly gained soul.”But before the weapon could descend, an interruption occurred. A little bowed, bent figure came hurrying into the group. Campian recognised the sometime leader of the devotions.“Hold now, my children,” he cried, in tones quavering with age and excitement, as he interposed his staff and rosary between the weapon of Umar Khan and its intended victim. “Have ye not grievously offended God? Have ye not broken into his hour of prayer, with brawling and strife? Would you further damn your own souls by shedding the blood of a true believer within this holyziarat(a local shrine or sanctuary)—for I myself have heard the profession of this Feringhi? Have no fear, my son—have no fear,” he added, turning to Campian, and placing an aged, wrinkled claw upon one shoulder. “None shall do thee hurt, thou, who art now one of the faithful—for if any harm thee,” shaking his staff menacingly, “let him shrivel before the curse of the Syyed Aïn Asrâf.”The only words of this address intelligible to the now ransomed victim—though he understood the burden thereof—was the name—and at that he could not repress a start of amazement. Those around beholding this were equally astonished.“See,” they said among themselves. “Even to the infidel has the fame and holiness of the Syyed Aïn Asrâf reached.”Even Umar Khan dare not openly resist the will of one so holy as the Syyed, and that as a matter of fact. But though baulked for the present, he turned sullenly away, meditating further mischief.
“Ping-ping!” The bullets sang around him—splattering the rocks with blue lead marks. Not for a moment did he think of stopping. They might shoot him dead, but alive he would not yield. Besides there was one last desperate chance, and he meant to try it.
The markhôr cave! A final spurt would bring him to that. It was just round yon shoulder of cliff, which at present concealed it. His pursuers would not even see him enter it, and there were smaller holes and crannies around which would puzzle them. Besides, he remembered there were superstitions attaching to it. These might possibly deter them from entering at all. It was a straw, but a slender one.
One great and final effort. He penetrated its normally forbidding but now welcome blackness, and sank down panting on the rock-floor. For some minutes he thus crouched, listening intently. He heard the rattle of stones outside; now and then the tones of a deep voice, or the clink of rifle-barrel or scabbard against the rock. The search was proceeding right merrily, yet, why had it not begun here?
Some minutes went by. To the hunted man, crouching there, they meant hours. Then the sound of steps approaching. They were going to search the markhôr cave. His last chance had failed.
The footsteps outside halted. Then he heard the voice of their owner calling, and receiving answers from several other voices. He was calling to his comrades to come and aid in the search. Superstition, evidently, disinclined him to prosecute it alone. It could not be the fugitive that he feared, seeing that the latter was unarmed, and probably quite exhausted.
Then a wild and daring idea came into Campian’s mind—in fact, so utterly desperate a plan that were he allowed time to think of it, the bare thought would suffice to send a cold shiver through his frame. The chasm—into which he had so nearly stepped on the occasion of his first and last visit to this place! The chasm—into whose black depths he and Vivien had stood gazing, side by side. It was his last and only chance, but—what a chance!
His matchbox contained a few wax vestas. The pursuers, probably still collecting to explore the cave in force, had not begun to enter. Groping his way round a rock corner which would partially or entirely shield the light from those without, he struck a vesta, deadening, so far as he was able, the sound with his hollowed hands. It flamed forth—a mere flicker in the cavernous gloom. But it was sufficient for his purpose.
There lay the black rift, like the great serpent for which he had at first taken it. He was right at its brink. Then flinging into it the spent vesta, he grasped the edge and let himself carefully down, hanging by the grasp of his two hands alone on the lip of the fissure, in the pitchy darkness over that awful unfathomable depth which seemed to go down into the very heart of the earth.
The tension was fearful. He must let go. Every muscle was strained and cracking. And now a glow of light told that his enemies were entering with torches. Ha! he had overlooked that contingency. The light would reveal his strained fingers grasping the rock. One cut of a tulwar—and—
Then his feet came in contact with something—something that clinked faintly as with the sound of metal. Groping carefully with both feet, lo! they closed on what felt like an iron chain.
Heavens! it was a chain—a massive iron chain depending in some way from the rock above. In the increasing glow of the torches he could make out that. Here was a Heaven-sent chance. Grasping the great links firmly with knees and feet, he let go, first with one hand, then the other, and seized the chain. It, with its rough links, afforded a safe and solid resting place for a time.
The pursuers had now arrived right at the brink. Their bizarre, turbaned shadows on the opposite rock wall looked gnome-like in the smoky glare of the torches. But in the said glare he recognised, with a rush of hope, that unless they peered right over they could not see him, for the chain hung from an iron bolt let into the rock, which here projected just above his head.
The weird shadows on the rock danced and tossed, the guttering light grotesquely exaggerating every movement. He who hung there could hear the deep-toned voices right over him. The chain to which he clung swayed and shivered with the concussion of the tramp of many feet above. They held out a torch or two over the abyss, and dropped a few pebbles down—even as he himself had done when with Bhallu Khan. He could hear their exclamations as the stones struck far below with a faint thud. Could he have understood them, his relief would have been greater still. Among them, however, he thought to recognise the harsh, snarling voice of Umar Khan.
“If the dog has gone down here,” that worthy was saying, “why, then, he is already suffering the torments of hell. If he entered this place at all, how should he not have fallen in, seeing that it is darker than night within the cave, and this hole is a pitfall to the unwary, and a very entrance to the abode of devils?”
“In here he entered without doubt,” said Ihalil Mohammed, “for every other hole have we searched thoroughly.”
To this the others assented. Their prisoner had undoubtedly given them the slip. Dead or alive he would never be seen again.
All this the hunted man, thus hanging there, could not understand. Would they never give up the search, he was wondering. Well for him that he was in hard form and training—yet he was not so young as he used to be, he recognised bitterly, as every joint and muscle ached with the convulsive tension involved in thus supporting his own weight, for an apparently unlimited period, entirely by compression. Well for him, too, that the links were rough with red, flaky rust, thus affording increased facility of hold. Yet would these hell hounds never give up the search?
They were forced to at last. The red glow of the torches grew fainter, then died out—so, too, did the sound of footsteps and voices. Campian was in pitch darkness, suspended over this awful and unknown depth.
Now that the more active peril was withdrawn, and his attention thus drawn inwards, he was able to think, to realise the full horror of his position. How was he to return? Cramped, aching, exhausted, he felt as though he could hardly hold on, let alone work his way upward. His blood ran cold too as he realised what would have been his fate but for this solid and substantial means of support right to his hand. Half a yard further on either side, and—No, it would not bear thinking of, and no sooner had he arrived at this conclusion than one foot, unconsciously lowered, came in contact with something.
Something hard, wide, horizontal it was, for as he cautiously increased the pressure he felt it sway and tilt slightly. Then, with equal caution, he lowered the other foot on the other side of the chain. It, too, met with like support. Carefully, with both feet, he increased the pressure so as to test the weight, still preserving his hand-hold. Nothing gave way, and his heart leaped within him as he found he had secured a firm resting place whereon to recruit his strength against his return climb.
And now, safe for the time being, his thoughts were busy with speculation as to this structure hung here in the black depths of the gulf. A great massive iron chain supporting a convenient swinging platform, had not found its way there expressly to afford him a secure refuge in the hour of peril, that much was certain. Then his nerves thrilled and tingled as the conjecture uttered by Vivien in this very place came back to his mind: “What if the things are at the bottom of that cleft?” Heavens! Had this structure to do with the hidden treasure—the priceless ruby sword?
Instinctively he sought his matchbox. No. That would be madness. His pursuers might not even have left the entrance of the cave. Not for hours would it be safe to strike a light.
And for hours, indeed, he hung there and waited. He groped around the platform, first with one foot then with the other, and it dawned upon him that the structure was no ordinary board, or it would have tilted. It was a solid block of wood—no—a box.
A box? A chest! That was it. What if it held the treasure itself? And then by a strange fatality the conviction that this would prove to be the case took firm hold of his mind—and if so, by what a terrible sequence of tragic events had he been constituted its finder. Would not the recent dread experiences be worth going through to have led up to this splendid discovery? All would yet be well. The best of life was before him yet Vivien’s last look, as he descended from their place of refuge to purchase her safety by delivering himself into the hands of their enemies, burned warm within his soul. When he returned safe, as one who returned from the dead, what would not her welcome be? Surely the glow of the old days would be as nothing to this.
These and other such thoughts coursed through his mind as he hung there in the pitchy blackness—and indeed it was well for him that such was the case. Nothing is more utterly unnerving than any space of time spent in an absolutely silent and rayless gloom, but when, in addition to that, the subject is swung on a hanging platform, whose very stability he can vouch for with no degree of certitude, over a chasm of unknown depth, and that for hours, why, he needs a mental stimulus of a pretty strong and exalted type.
Judging it safe at last to do so, Campian struck a light. Feeble enough it seemed in the vast gloom, and not until it had burned out were his eyes capable of seeing anything after being for hours in black darkness. Then, stooping as low as he dared, he lit another. Yes. It was even as he had conjectured. The platform he was standing on was a box or chest.
It was of very old and hard grained wood, almost black, and clamped together with solid brass bindings. It showed no sign of having suffered from the ravages of time, and the upper part, which was all he could see, was covered with Arabic characters, curiously inlaid—probably texts from the Korân. He had no doubt but this was what had occupied so much of his thoughts, the hidden and forgotten treasure chest of the fugitive Durani chief, Dost Hussain Khan. Little is it to be wondered at if even there he felt thrilled with exultation as he remembered what priceless valuables it certainly contained.
But that thrill of exultation sustained a rude shock—in fact died away. For happening to glance up while lighting another match it came home to him that whether the chest contained valuables or not, the probability that he would ever be in a position to put that contingency to the test was exceedingly slender; for to gain the brink of the chasm, and the outer air again, looked from there an absolute impossibility. The chain, and that which it supported, depended from a solid bolt let into the rock, but the latter overhung it in a cornice or lip, which projected nearly half a yard. He would never be able to worm himself over this. And then it came home to him that he was beginning to feel quite faint with hunger, and that his strength was leaving him fast.
Well, the feat must be attempted. Lighting another match—and he had few left now—he sent a long steady look at the projection, the fastening of the chain, and the distance from the edge. Then he began his climb.
This was not great. The rock lip projected only about half a yard above his hands at their highest tension. He drew himself up. He was under the projection—groping outward along it in the darkness. Now he gripped it firmly with both hands—still clinging to the chain with feet and legs. He was about to swing himself off. One hand half-slipped away. No, he could not do it. His strength failed him, likewise his nerve. He was barely able to seize the chain again and let himself down to the vantage ground of the box, where he stood literally trembling.
This would not do at all. He must rest for a few moments and recruit his strength, must quell this shaky fit by sheer force of will. It could not be—he argued with himself—that he had come through all this, had made this royal discovery, by a chain of coincidences signal and tragic, only to fail at the last; to be swept into nothingness; to disappear from all human sight as completely as though dead and buried already. He was a bit of a fatalist, too, and this partially supported him now. If he was to come through safely, why he would — if not—! And with this thought, as by an inspiration, came another idea.
He could never raise himself above the rock projection from which the chain hung—that much was certain. But—the point whence he had let himself down was only a foot to the right. There the edge did not overlap.
Steadying his over-wrought nerves, he drew himself up once more. Holding on tightly he reached forth one hand. It grasped the brink. Carefully he felt along the hard rock. Yes—that would do. Now for it. He put forth the other hand.
And now the moment was crucial. One arm was already along the floor above the edge. Campian’s fate hung in the balance there in the pitchy gloom. Beneath him all black darkness, death, horror, annihilation. The merest feather weight either way would turn the scale. He let go of the chain with his feet. A last and mighty effort, and—he was lying safe and sound on the rock-floor above; well nigh unconscious with exhaustion and the awful strain his nerves had undergone.
For long he lay thus. Then the cravings of hunger became more than he could bear. Physical nature reasserted itself. He must obtain food at all risks. The forest bungalow was not far from that place. There he would find it.
It must have been hours since he took refuge here. His enemies had surprised him just at daybreak; now it was high noon. Prudence counselled that he should wait until night—physical craving argued that by then he would hardly have strength left him to make his way anywhere; and the physical argument prevailed, as it ordinarily does.
He stepped forth quickly and gained the shelter of the juniper forest. The glare of the sun blinded him, and the sparse foliage afforded but poor shade. He staggered along exhausted, yet full of renewed hope and resolution.
But for the mental and bodily exhaustion which half dulled his faculties, he would have become aware of a peculiar nasal, droning sound a short distance in front of him. As it was he hardly heard it, or if so, missed its significance. When, however, he became alive to the latter it was too late.
In a small open space, overhung on the further side by rocks, a score of turbaned figures were kneeling. They were in two rows, and, barefooted, were prostrating themselves in the approved method of the faithful at prayer. Then, rising, repeated, with one voice, their orisons, which were led by a single figure a little in advance of the rest. It was too late. With the first footfall of the intruder, round came several shaggy faces. The effect was magical. The entire band of fervid devotees sprang to its feet as one man. Tulwars whirled from their scabbards, and, in a moment, the intruder was surrounded. Well might the latter now despair. Well might he realise that the bitterness of death was indeed past. All that he had gone through was as nothing. He had walked, with his eyes open, right into the midst of his enemies, had placed, of his own act, his life in their hands. Foremost among the threatening, scowling countenances was the repulsive, exultant one of Umar Khan.
“Ah! ah!” snarled this implacable savage, with a grin of exultation. “Lo, the sheep returns to the slaughter, for so wills it God.”
“Allah?” repeated the destined victim, catching the last word. “Hearken, Moslem, în hearken!” he called out in Hindustani, eyeing with unconcern the uplifted sword of his arch enemy. Then, standing there in their midst, and facing in the direction they had been facing while at prayer, he extended both hands heavenward, and uttered in a loud, firm voice:
“La illah il Allah,Mohammed er rasoul Allah!”
“La illah il Allah,Mohammed er rasoul Allah!”
A gasp of wonder went up from those who beheld. As by magic every weapon was lowered. Campian had professed the faith of Islam.
For some moments these fanatical brigands stared stupidly at each other, then at the figure of the sometime infidel, but now believer. The spell was broken by their leader.
“It is well!” he said, advancing upon Campian, and again raising his tulwar. “There is rejoicing in Paradise now, for in a moment it will be the richer for a newly gained soul.”
But before the weapon could descend, an interruption occurred. A little bowed, bent figure came hurrying into the group. Campian recognised the sometime leader of the devotions.
“Hold now, my children,” he cried, in tones quavering with age and excitement, as he interposed his staff and rosary between the weapon of Umar Khan and its intended victim. “Have ye not grievously offended God? Have ye not broken into his hour of prayer, with brawling and strife? Would you further damn your own souls by shedding the blood of a true believer within this holyziarat(a local shrine or sanctuary)—for I myself have heard the profession of this Feringhi? Have no fear, my son—have no fear,” he added, turning to Campian, and placing an aged, wrinkled claw upon one shoulder. “None shall do thee hurt, thou, who art now one of the faithful—for if any harm thee,” shaking his staff menacingly, “let him shrivel before the curse of the Syyed Aïn Asrâf.”
The only words of this address intelligible to the now ransomed victim—though he understood the burden thereof—was the name—and at that he could not repress a start of amazement. Those around beholding this were equally astonished.
“See,” they said among themselves. “Even to the infidel has the fame and holiness of the Syyed Aïn Asrâf reached.”
Even Umar Khan dare not openly resist the will of one so holy as the Syyed, and that as a matter of fact. But though baulked for the present, he turned sullenly away, meditating further mischief.