They might not have seen so clearly, had he allowed
one-half of the men to be lookers-on.
"Steady!" he repeated. "Be sure and let him breathe, until I give
the word." Then he seized the cowering Beluchi by the neck, and
dragged him up close beside the fakir. "Translate, you!" he ordered.
"To the crowd out yonder first. Shout to 'em, and be careful to
make no mistakes."
"Speak, then, sahib! What shall I say?"
"Say this. This most sacred person here is our prisoner. He will
die the moment any one attempts to rescue him."
The Beluchi translated, and repeated word for word.
"I will now talk with him, and he himself will talk with you, and
thus we will come to an arrangement!"'
There was a commotion in the shadows, and somewhere in the neighborhood
of fifty men appeared, keeping at a safe distance still, but evidently
anxious to get nearer.
"Now talk to the fakir, and not so loudly! Ask him `Are you a sacred
person?' Ask him softly, now!"
"He says `Yes,' sahib, `I am sacred!"'
"Do you want to die?"
"All men must die!"
The answer made an opening for an interminable discussion, of the
kind that fakirs and their kindred love.
Pages:
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100