The next layer being uncovered yielded to view some magnificent personal ornaments, bracelets and the like, thickly jewelled. These were lifted out, and then the third skin covering being removed, that contained by the last and lower compartment of the chest lay revealed. Something long, wrapped in several rolls of the soft wash leather. Carefully, almost reverently, Yar Hussain unfolded these and—There it lay, in the bottom of the chest, hilt and scabbard literally glowing with splendid rose red jewels, relieved by the white flash of diamonds, dazzling the eyes of the beholders with the suddenness of its glare—there it lay, in its long hidden splendour, the cherished heirloom of the refugee Durani chief—the priceless Ruby Sword.
For some moments the surrounding Baluchis stood staring in stupefied silence, then they broke forth in ejaculations as to the wonderful ways of Allah, and so forth. Campian, beholding the wealth thus displayed, could not but feel some sort of qualm as he remembered how he might have concealed his knowledge until able to turn it to his own material account. It was only momentary, however, and he was the first to break in with a practical remark.
“Hearken, Sohrâb Khan,” he said. “I think I have now done all that I can do. Tell the sirdar that he and his have returned to me the service that my father rendered to his, have returned it twofold, and I, for my part, am rejoiced to have been the means by which he has come into the possession of his own. But there are those in Shâlalai I would fain see again, and if it is all the same to him, I think”—with a glance at the sun—“we might fetch Mehriâb station in time to catch the afternoon train.”
This very Western and end of the nineteenth century phrase breaking in upon such a scene of Eastern and mediaeval romanticism struck its utterer as almost ludicrous in its incongruity.
“In truth, that is comprehensible,” replied Yar Hussain, when this suggestion was put to him—“and it shall be done. Yes, my brother, who art now one of us, thy wishes shall be fulfilled. But now, receive this,”—placing in his hand one of the bags of cut stones—“and choose from among these,”—pointing to the jewelled bracelets—“that some recompense may be made thee for thy sufferings at the hands of our people, and that the remembrance of thy brethren here may be pleasant and sweet when thou art among thine own people in the years to come.”
Campian, repressing the momentary instinct which moved him to decline so splendid a gift, made choice of one of the bracelets—not one of the best, however. It was a splendid ornament for all that, and a tightening of the heart went through him as he wondered to himself if it would ever be worn. Then he asked if he could keep the Durani ring, which he valued more than ever.
“Surely,” was the sirdar’s reply. “In truth it is restored to a believer, and hath amply fulfilled its mission.”
When the train for Shâlalai stopped at Mehriâb station that day, the few European passengers it contained were lazily astonished by the presence on the platform of an evidently important Baluchi sirdar, accompanied by a large retinue. Their astonishment grew to activity, however, when one of the group, before entering a first-class carriage, took leave of them in excellent English, which was duly translated to the chief and his following by one of their number, the departure of the train being signalled by a perfect chorus of farewell “salaams” from those left behind. They were destined to be still more mightily astonished upon the arrival of the train at the last station or two before Shâlalai by the appearance of a European, of military or official aspect, who greeted the supposed Oriental with cordial handgrip, singing out in a voice that carried the whole length of the train:
“Devilish glad to see you back, old chap. And I’ve brought you your togs, so you’ll have time to get into them as we go along. By George, though, you look no end of a real sirdar in that get-up, all the same.”
And taking a Gladstone bag from the attendant bearer, he jumped in too.