"Then it may have been many hours since he passed through the court-yard; and he could not pass without being seen!" exclaimed the indignant chief. "Ali Khan and Mir Ghazan at least must have seen him. If there has been treachery,—if the Feringhee has bribed with his gold,—the vengeance of Assad shall fall on the traitors." Then suddenly turning again towards Walter, he cried, "You must know how and when he fled. Dog, speak! or I'll force out the secret by torture!"
Walter pressed his white lips closely together; not a sound came forth.
"Bind him and bastinado him, till he speak or die!"
The state of Walter's ankle, so inflamed that even a touch gave pain, made the command most barbarous; every blow on that foot would be torture indeed. The unhappy youth could but inwardly pray that strength might be given to bear what he felt that unaided human nature could not endure. But no compassion for the sufferer was heard in any Afghan heart there—but one. Sultána did not weep, nor cling to her father's knees; child as she was, she knew that to do so would be of no avail whatever—she might as well try by tears to melt a stone; like a young fawn she bounded forward—one little bare foot just touching the charpai gave impetus to her spring. Sultána was in the window aperture in a moment, and cried out in a tone of defiance—"If you touch him, I'll throw myself over the cliff."
"Sultána, come down!" cried her father; "I will wring the secret out of the Kafir!"
"But if I can tell it?"—and what a bright face, bending down from the aperture, was seen by the torchlight! "what if the little Eagle knows how the yellow-haired fled!"
"Thou! speak, child!" cried the chief, in surprise.
"You will not hurt my friend if I tell all?"
"I have no wish to hurt him," was the reply, "if I can but get back again into my grasp the wealthy Feringhee. This youth is poor as a wandering fakir."
"The yellow-haired fled this way—by this opening," cried Sultána; "he must have had an eagle's wings, indeed, if he got to the bottom unharmed."