The prospect of a surgical amputation, even when carried out with all the accessories of scientific skill, is not conducive to a placid frame of mind, by any means. What then must be that of a cruel mutilation, with all the accompaniments of sickening torture, for no other purpose than to gratify the vindictive spite of a barbarian? The reaction from the acute mental agony he had undergone had rendered Campian strangely helpless. It was a weariful feeling, as though he would fain have done with life, and in his desperation he glanced furtively around to see if it would not be possible to snatch a weapon and die, fighting hard. A desire for revenge upon the ruffian who had subjected him to such outrage then came uppermost. Could he but seize a tulwar, Umar Khan should be his first victim, even though he himself were cut to pieces the next moment. But he had no opportunity. The Baluchis guarded their weapons too carefully.
“Does that devil really mean what he says, Buktiar?” he took occasion to ask, “or is he only trying to scare me?”
“He mean it,” replied the cross-breed, somewhat gloomily, for were the prisoner injured the prospect of his own reward seemed to vanish. “Once he cut off one man’s feet—and hands too—and leave him on the mountain. Plenty wolf that part—dey eat him.”
This was cheering. How desperate was his strait, here, in the power of these cruel savages—in the heart of a ghastly mountain waste that a month or two ago he had never heard of—even now he did not know where he was. Their route the day before had been so tortuous that he could not guess how near or how far they had travelled from any locality known to him.
“I will give you a thousand rupees, Buktiar, if you help me to escape,” he said. “If you can’t help me, but do nothing to prevent me, I’ll give you five hundred.”
The cross-breed squinted diabolically as he strove to puzzle out how he was to earn this reward. Like most Asiatics he was acquisitive and money loving, and to be promised a rich reward, and yet see no prospect of being able to earn it, was tantalising to the last degree. He shook his head in his perplexity.
“Money good, life better,” he said. “Dey see me help you—then I dead. What I do?”
Then Umar Khan spoke angrily, and in the result Buktiar left the side of the prisoner, with whom he had no further opportunity of converse that day.
The night drew down in gusty darkness. A misty drizzle filled the air, and it was piercingly cold. The Baluchis huddled round their fires, having lighted two, and presently their deep-toned drowsy conversation ceased. One by one they dropped off to sleep.
Then a desperate resolve took hold of Campian’s mind. He was unbound, and, to all appearances, unguarded—why should he not make the attempt? Any death was preferable to the horrible prospect which morning light would bring. He might be cut down or shot in the attempt. Equally great was the probability of coming to a violent end among the cliffs and chasms of this savage mountain waste. No sooner resolved upon than he arose, and, drawing his poshteen tighter round him, walked deliberately forth; stepping over the unconscious forms of the sleeping Baluchis. His very boldness aided him. None moved. In a moment he was alone in the darkness outside.