"Hold off, or I'll blow your brains out!" exclaimed Denis, suddenly starting up to a sitting position, and looking wildly around him. "Oh, Walter, is it only you? I dreamed that I had half-a-dozen Afghans upon me!—why, what is that horrible noise?"
"Only the jackals," said Walter drowsily, coiling himself up in his rug.
"Dismal noise—worse than the screeching of owls! One would think that some venerable grandfather jackal had departed this life, and that all his descendants had collected together to howl at his wake."
Walter made no observation; he was already asleep.
He was roused at daybreak to prepare for the morning's journey. The Europeans did not find it easy to start. The muleteers were unwilling to go forwards, and demanded bakhshish,* and leave to return. They refused to reload the mules, though Denis used very strong Hibernian language, which Walter did not care to translate. The fiery young Irishman then used the argument of the stick, which was for the time more effectual.
* A present.
The mules were laden at last; but scarcely had the party started before one of the beasts of burden was found to be lame. The slowness of progress had sorely tried the philosophy of Denis on the previous day; he now became fiercely impatient at having to curb in his steed to suit a lame mule's halting pace.
"I'd bet anything that sneaking fellow had something to do with the beast's lameness!" he exclaimed. "I'll give him another taste of my cane."
"Mr. Denis—Dermot! nothing is gained, everything hazarded by making enemies of these men!" cried Walter. "That poor creature cannot limp on with its burden; we shall have to leave something behind."
"Put the boxes on your pony," suggested Denis; "your gun, rug, and other light chattels we'll heap on the top of the other mule's burden, and then turn this wretched brute adrift."