"Take it from his hands—don't let the fellow come in!" cried Denis from his corner. "Tell him to close the door; we've had enough of the Afghans for this day at least."
Walter translated the request into Pushtoo; the food was placed on the charpai, and the door closed, but not locked. Walter turned to see why Denis delayed coming to share the dinner, and beheld with surprise the occupation in which his comrade was engaged.
Denis had that morning discovered a penknife in the pocket of Walter's coat, which he wore. It was to the Irishman a prize of priceless value. That penknife, with patient toil, he had been plying during the whole of the time that Walter had been engaged in missionary work.
"What are you doing?" exclaimed the astonished Walter; "cutting my—or rather the chief's blanket into strips!"
"Hist! I am preparing a rope."
"You are not dreaming of attempting the descent!"
"Not dreaming, but resolving and preparing," replied Denis, too much engaged—perhaps too much ashamed—to lift up his eyes.
Walter was deeply wounded, far more than he cared to show. He had already had reason to know that the former hero of his fancy was a far less noble being than he had believed him to be; he saw that Denis was thoughtless and selfish; but Walter would have indignantly repudiated the idea of his fellow-captive being able thus to desert a helpless, suffering friend, had he heard it from any lips but the Irishman's own. "Put not your trust in princes, or in any child of men," thought Walter. "I would not, for all the gold of the Indies, have left him to bear the consequences of any flight of mine from this place."
"Don't wait dinner for me!" cried Denis; "I can find my way to my mouth by starlight, but cannot spare one second of daylight for my work, for one strip carelessly cut might cost me a broken neck."
"Will your rope be long enough?" asked Walter curtly.