Chapter Twenty One.
The Durani Ring.
When he awoke to consciousness Campian realised that he was lying on a charpoy, within a low, mud-plastered room.
His limbs were no longer bound, but his whole frame ached from head to foot with a racking pain. With the first attempt to move he groaned, and once more closed his eyes. That last fearful ordeal had been too much for nerve and brain. Even now, as he awoke, the recollection of it came back with a rush.
A slight rustling and the sound of a quiet footstep caused him to look forth once more. A bearded, long-haired Baluchi was standing beside the bed with an earthen bowl in his hand.
“Kaha Syyed Aïn Asrâf hai?” queried Campian.
But the man only shook his head, set down the bowl, and departed.
He drank the contents, which consisted of slightly curdled goat’s milk, and feeling vastly better, made up his mind to rise.
The turban he had before worn was lying beside him. Twisting it on, he sallied forth.
The sun was sky high, but the air was no longer the scorching breath of the desert. It was fresh, almost cool. As he looked around he could see the towering head of a mountain beyond the line of roof.