"Good! I'll assume, then, until I'm contradicted, that you're all
brave men. Into the guardroom with you!"
"Sahib! Sahib!" said a voice beside him.
"Well? What?"
It was the Beluchi interpreter who had carried the lamp for him that
evening when he arrested the fakir.
"Run, sahib! It is time to run away!"
"Go on, then! Why don't you run?"
"I am afraid, sahib."
"Of what?"
"Of the men who slew the soldiers. Sahib! Remember what the fakir
said. You will be pegged out on an anthill, sahib, when you have
been beaten. Run, while there is yet time!"
"Did you see them kill my men?"
"Nay, sahib!"
"How was that?"
"I ran away and hid, sahib."
"How many were there?"
"Very many. The Punjabi skin-buyer brought them."
"He did, did he? Very well! Did he go off with the fakir?"
"I think he did. I did not see."
"Well, we'll suppose he did, then. And when the day breaks; we'll
suppose that we can find him, and we'll go in search of him, and I
wouldn't like to be that Punjabi when I do find him! Get into the
guard-room, and wait in there until I give you leave to stir.
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