But when they reached the earthen throne again at last, and had hoisted
the fakir back in position on it, there had been no casualties, and
the morale of the men in Sergeant Brown's command was as good again
as the breech-mechanism of the rifles in his charge.
They were scarcely visible to him or one another in the blackness,
but he sensed the change in them, and changed his own tune to fit
the changed condition.
His voice had nothing in it but the abrupt military explosion when
he gave his orders now--no argument, no underlying sympathy. He was
no longer herding a flock of frightened children. He was ordering
trained, grown men, and he knew it and they knew it. The orders ripped
out, like the crack of a drover's whip.
"Fall in, now, properly! 'Tshun! Right dress! To two paces--open
order--from the center--extend! Now, then! Left and right wings--
last three at each end forward--right wheel--halt. That's it. 'Bout
face. Now each man keep two eyes lifting till the morning. If anything
shows up, or any of you hear a sound, shoot first and challenge
afterward!"
They were standing so when the pale sun greeted them, in hollow square,
with their backs toward the fakir, who was squatting, staring straight
in front of him, on his dais, with his back turned to the tree and
his withered arm still pointing up to heaven like a dead man's calling
to the gods for vengeance.
Pages:
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109