Ruth sat with her face between her
hands, trying not to cry or shudder, but obsessed and overpowered
by a sense of terror. The mystery that surrounded her was bad enough;
but this mysterious ordering and coming to and fro among her friends
was worse than horrible. She knew, though, that it would be useless
to question Mahommed Khan before he chose to speak. They waited
there in the dimly lighted room for what seemed tike an age again;
she, pale and tortured by weird imaginings; he, grim and bolt-upright
like a statue of a warrior. Then sounds came from the stairs again
and the Risaldar hurried to the door and opened it.
In burst the Risaldar's half-brother, breathing heavily and bearing
a load nearly as big as he was.
"The pig caught my wrist within the opening!" he growled, tossing
his gagged and pinioned burden on the floor. "See where he all but
broke it!"
"What is thy wrist to the service of the Raj? Is he the right one?"
"Aye!" He stooped and tore a twisted loin-cloth from his victim's
face, and the Risaldar walked to the lamp and brought it, to hold
it above the prostrate form.
Pages:
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190