With his own hand he took
the noose from his neck and, now that the flames had died away to
nothing but spasmodic spurts above a dull red underglow, there was
no one in the watching ring who could see Brown's sword-point. Only
Brown and the fakir knew that it was scratching at the skin between
the fakir's shoulder-blades.
"It is done!" said the fakir presently. "Now take me back to my dais
again!" And the Beluchi translated.
"I'd like to hear their trigger-springs released," suggested Brown.
"This has all been a shade too slick for me. I've got my doubts yet
about it's being done. Tell him to order them to uncock their rifles,
so that I can hear them do it."
"He says that they are gone already!" translated the Beluchi.
"Tell him I don't believe it!" answered Brown, whose eyes were straining
to pierce the darkness, which was blacker than the pit again by now.
The fakir raised his voice into a howl--a long, low, ululating howl
like that he had uttered when they found him on his dais. From the
distance, beyond the range of rifles, came a hundred answering howls.
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