Then he
remembered the Beluchi.
"Ask him, you! Ask him how he came here."
The Beluchi found his tongue, and stammered out a question. The
fakir chuckled, and following his chuckle let a guttural remark
escape him.
"He says, sahib, that he flew!"
"Ask him, could he fly with nine fixed bayonets in him!"
There was a little laughter from the men at that sally. It takes
very little in the way of humor to dispel a sense of the uncanny
or mysterious.
"He answers, sahib, that you have seen what comes of striking him.
He asks how many dead there be."
"Does he want me to hold him answerable for those men's lives?"
"He says he cares not, sahib! He says that he has promised what shall
befall you, sahib, before a day is past--you and one other!"
"Ask him, where is the Punjabi skin-buyer?"
The fakir chuckled at that question, and let out suddenly a long,
low, hollow-sounding howl, like a she-wolf's just at sundown. He
was answered by another howl from near the guardroom, and every soldier
faced about as though a wasp had stung him.
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