"Now, that's better; watch for the word! Easy on the rope
a little!"
The men did their best to pose for the part of semimesmerized victims
of a superhuman power. The flame from the burning roofs was dying
down already, for the thatch burned fast, and the glowing gloom was
deep enough to hide indifferent acting. With their lives at stake,
though, men act better than they might at other times.
The fakir spun round on his heels and, clutching with his whole hand
at the rope, began to execute a sort of dance--a weird, fantastic,
horrible affair of quivering limbs and rolling eyeballs, topped by
a withered arm that pointed upward, and a tortured fingernail-pierced
fist that nodded on a dried-out-wrist-joint.
"Hookum hai!" he screamed suddenly, waving his sound hand upward,
and bringing it down suddenly with a jerk, as though by sheer force
he was blasting them.
"Down with you!" ordered Brown, and all except Brown and the Beluchi
tumbled over backward.
"Keep hold of your rifles!" ordered Brown.
The fakir's wailing continued for a while.
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