"I will lock you in," said the youth, "and give the key to no one unless the chief demands it."
The closing of the door was not an unmixed advantage, as it lessened the circulation of air, and excluded from the captives all view of the courtyard. Yet anything, at the time, seemed better than the inroad of Afghan intruders.
Walter took up the black bread, and breaking it into two equal portions, gave one to his comrade. "We need our breakfast," said he.
"You will hardly give thanks over it," observed Denis, with a look of disgust.
"I shall give thanks, heartfelt thanks," replied Walter, with animation, "not merely for food, but for preservation in imminent danger from sudden and violent death!" and, with the bread in his hand, he sank on his knees. Denis, solemnised for a while, intuitively followed his comrade's example, and if he did not feel all the gratitude which warmed the breast of his friend, he could at least heartily join in Walter's prayer for help and deliverance. It was perhaps the first time in Dermot's life that he had actually prayed; and even now his desires did not rise above earth.
Thankful to have seen Denis for once on his knees, and hopeful that to him tribulation might prove "an angel in disguise," Walter ate his wretched food with something like relish. Denis was weary and hungry, and left not a crumb of what he had judged unfit for hounds. Both the prisoners then found in the sleep of exhaustion a short respite from trouble.
The rest of the day was spent by Denis in feverish impatience for the visit of the chief from which he hoped so much. He set diligently to work to learn from Walter words and phrases in Pushtoo, finding his ignorance of the language a perpetual source of annoyance. Denis tried to get up speeches full of flowery compliments, and containing splendid offers, which he assured his companion that no Oriental could resist.
"I should like to have met the chief in a costume more befitting a man of position," said Denis, passing his hand through his thick curly hair for want of his ivory comb. "This wretched coat of yours is so tight! made for a slender stripling like you, I can't stir my arms for bursting the seams—it's like a straight-jacket for a madman! I'd give something for a scarlet uniform, with epaulettes and gold lace. With my battered face, and a coat like this, I look like a ragamuffin!"
Walter could not help smiling at the handsome Irishman's pathetic complaint.
Denis strode up and down the narrow apartment, exclaiming against the heat and the mosquitoes, and often pausing before the hole of a window to measure with his eye the depth of the precipice below, and calculate the possibility of a descent. He always turned away disappointed, yet in a few minutes was at the aperture again. As long as enough of daylight remained, Walter occupied himself with his father's translation, amidst frequent interruptions from Denis.