“Only begin to believe?” And she laughed gaily, happily.
The comedy side of what had come near being tragedy did not appeal to Mehrab Khan in the least. They found that estimable Baluchi in a serious and gloomy vein. In the first place he had penetrated here and had thus incurred the consequent penalty; in the next by taking the voice of the dead Syyed he had committed an act of sacrilege. Raynier strove to reassure him.
“If Allah used this place as a means of saving our lives,” he said, “he does not intend that it shall be the means of our losing them, and it was written that they should be saved here. Besides, O believer, it was upon the people of this country that the dead Syyed laid the curse, not upon us, who are not of this country.”
And this, perhaps, was what went furthest towards reassuring Mehrab Khan. He repeated sententiously,—
“It was written.”
Chapter Twenty Six.
A Deed of Gift.
At Mazaran Hilda Clive was the heroine of the hour, and the station did not know which to do most—admire her pluck and resolution, or marvel how it could have regarded her all this while as of no account. She had done a wonderful thing, this quiet, retiring girl, on whom the popular verdict had been “Oh, so-so.” She had ventured alone into the stronghold of one of the fierce, fanatical tribes then engaged in the border war, and had brought back their prisoner, the man whom they had doomed to death. She had saved his life.