“Oh, I see,” and the prisoner’s heart sank. His chances of escaping death—and that in some ghastly and barbarous form—looked slighter and slighter. “I never harmed him, that I know of for certain. I never harmed anyone except in fair fight. If he has suffered any injury from me it must be in that way. Tell him, Buktiar, if you get the opportunity, and if you don’t, make the opportunity—that a man with the name for bravery and dash that he has made does not bear a grudge over injuries received in fair and open fight. You understand?”
“I un’stand—when you slow speak. Baluchi, he very cross man. You strike him, he strike you. You kill him, his one brother, two brother, kill you, if not dis year, then next year.”
A rude interruption there and then occurred to bear out the other’s words. Campian, who was seated on the ground at the time, felt himself seized from behind and flung violently on his back. Half-a-dozen sinewy ruffians had laid hold of him, and he was powerless to move. Bending over him was the savage face of Umar Khan, stamped with the same expression of diabolical malignity as it had worn when he had first beheld it.
“O dog,” began the outlaw, pushing his now helpless prisoner with his foot, “dost guess what I am going to do with thee?”
“Put an end to me, I suppose,” answered Campian wearily, when this had been rendered. “But it doesn’t seem fair. I yielded myself up on the understanding that I should only be detained until the five thousand rupees were paid. And now I have promised you two thousand more. What do you gain by my death?”
Buktiar duly translated this, and the Baluchi answered:
“What do I gain? Revenge—blood for blood. But hearken. I had intended to strike off thy head, but thou shalt have thy life. Yet if Umar Khan must walk lame for the remainder of his life, why should the dog whose bite rendered him lame walk straight? Answer that, dog—pig—answer that,” growled the barbarian, grinding his teeth, and working himself up into a frenzy of vindictive rage. “Tell him what I said just now, Buktiar—that a brave man never bears malice for wounds received in fair fight,” was the answer.
But this appeal was lost on Umar Khan. He spat contemptuously and went on.
“I had meant to strike off thy head, thou pig, but will be merciful. As I walk lame, thou shalt walk lame. I will strike off both thy feet instead.”
A cold perspiration broke out from every pore as this was translated to the unfortunate man. Even if he survived the shock and agony of this frightful mutilation, the prospect of going through life maimed and helpless, and all that it involved—Oh, it was too terrible.