“Are we less so here?” said Campian. “A match put to that nice little pile and we shall be smoked or roasted in no time. No. Strike while the iron’s hot, say I. Der’ Ali, make them swear by all that they hold sacred to keep faith with us, and then I’ll come down.”
“Who is your leader, brothers?” called out the bearer.
“I, Ihalil Mohammed Khan,” returned the same deep voice that had before spoken.
Then Der’ Ali put to him the most binding oath he could call to mind, and Ihalil accepted it without hesitation. He bound himself by all the virtues of the Prophet, by the Korân, and by the holy Caaba, faithfully to observe the conditions he had laid down—in short, he almost swore too much.
“Say we accept, Der’ Ali. I’m coming down.”
“God bless you, my boy,” said the Colonel, as he wrung the other’s hand in farewell. “If it was only ourselves, I’d say let’s all hang together. But for Vivien’s sake. There, good-bye.”
“Rather—so long, we’ll say,” was the cheerful reply. “I’ll show up again in a few days.”
Vivien said nothing. A silent pressure of the hands was the extent to which she could trust herself.
For all his assumed cheerfulness it was a critical moment for Campian, as once more he stood upon the floor of the waiting room, and, stumbling over the heaped-up combustibles, stepped outside into the full glare of daylight. His nerves were at their highest tension. The chances that he would be cut to pieces or not the moment he showed his face were about even. As in a flash, that question as to whether he was ever afraid of anything darted through his mind. At that moment he was conscious of feeling most horribly and unheroically afraid.
No one would have thought it to look at him, though—certainly not those into whose midst he now stepped.