“Is the sahib still alive?” asked the Colonel.
“He is still alive.”
“And well?”
“And well.”
“Very good. Now then, Der’ Ali. Tell this infernal scoundrel to tell his more infernal scoundrel of a chief that if he brings in the sahib safe and well within eight days from, this, and hands him over, we will pay him another five thousand rupees; but if any harm happens to him, then the Sirkâr will never rest until he has hung him and every man Jack of the gang—hung ’em in pigskins, by God, and burnt them afterwards. What does he say to that?”
Der’ Ali, being judicious, substituted courteous epithets for the naturally explosive ones which his master had directed at Umar Khan, and Der’ Ali, being a Moslem himself, refrained from repeating in plain terms so shocking a reference as that of which the blunt Feringhi had not scrupled to make use, substituting for it mysterious and sinister hints as to death by hanging under its most dreaded form. Ihalil’s reply was characteristically laconic.
“Well, what does he say?” repeated the Colonel testily.
“He say—he hears, Huzoor.”
“Are they going to bring the sahib back, Der’ Ali?”
“He say—he can’t say, Huzoor,” answered the interpreter, having elicited that terse reply.