“Tell him to go to the devil, then,” said the Colonel, unable to resist an angry stamp of the foot.
Der’ Ali rendered this as—“Go in peace,” and Ihalil, uttering an impassive “Salaam,” mounted his camel, and—did so.
They watched the form of the retreating Baluchi, fast becoming a mere white speck in the desert waste with every stride of his camel, and shook their heads despondently. Would these wolves ever release their prey? Bhallu Khan was of a kindred tribe. What did he think of the chances? But the old forester, who, like most barbarians or semi-barbarians, always answer what they imagine the inquirers would like best to hear, replied that he thought the chances were good. All men loved money—even the sahibs would rather have plenty than little—he interpolated with a whimsical smile. Baluchi loved money too. Umar Khan would probably release his prisoner if plenty of rupees were offered him.
But the eight days became fifteen, and still of the said prisoner there was no sign; and the fortnight grew into weeks, with like result. Then those interested in Campian’s fate felt gloomy indeed. They had almost abandoned hope.
But whatever private woes and trials, the world rubs on as usual. Shâlalai at large was not particularly interested in Campian’s fate, except as an item of political excitement. It was far more interested in the capture or destruction of Umar Khan than in the rescue or murder of his prisoner; for that bold outlaw had set up something of a scare. That sort of outbreak was catching among these fierce, fanatical, predatory races, and it struck home. Shooting parties became decidedly nervous, and fewer withal; and those delightful, moonlight bicycling picnics, miles out along the smooth, level, military road, were given up as unsafe—for did not the Brahui villages dotting the plain on either side contain scowling, shaggy, sword-wearing ruffians in plenty, and was there not a wave of restlessness heaving through the lot?
Fleming was one of those who decided that his own affairs were of paramount importance to himself; wherefore he continued to pay assiduous court to Nesta Cheriton. But the girl seemed to have altered somehow. She had grown quite subdued, not to say serious. The old, gay, sparkling high spirits were seldom there. Fleming, turning things over, shook a gloomy head, then dismissed his fears as absurd. Could it be there was anything between Campian and herself? They had perforce been thrown together a lot in Upward’s camp—moreover, when he and Bracebrydge had left, they had left the other behind them. Had he improved the shining hour then? Fleming recalled the tangi adventure, and swore to himself; but he soon recovered, and the restoration of his equanimity was effected through the agency of his looking-glass. It was too damned absurd, he told himself, surveying his really good-looking face and well-knit soldierly figure—that any girl could prefer a dry old stick like Campian, and a mere civilian at that—so, giving his gallant moustache an additional twist or two eyewards, he concluded to start off and place the matter beyond a doubt.
But on reaching Upward’s bungalow ill chance awaited him. Nesta was not alone, and her mood was unpropitious. What was that? He could hardly believe his ears. She was depreciating—yes, actually depreciating—the British Army.
“I don’t know what is the use of all these soldiers here in Shâlalai,” she was saying as he came in. “Thousands of them. How many are there, Captain Fleming? How many soldiers have we got in Shâlalai?”
“Oh, about five thousand—of all sorts.”
“About five thousand,” she repeated, “horse, foot, and artillery, and yet a dozen ragged Pathâns can race about the country, killing people at will.”