The chief beckoned him forward, and he had to obey. Yes, obey. There was no mincing the word. He was in the power—absolutely in the power of this man, this “nigger,” as he would have described him about half an hour ago.
“You heard those shots,” said the Gularzai, haughtily, from the loftiness of his tall steed. “Yes? Look around. Where is the jungle wallah?”
Tarleton did look around—with some alacrity, moreover. But no sign of Haslam rewarded his glance. He began to see the grim drift of the injunction.
“You will see your friend no more,” went on the chief. “I asked him a question—for the third time. He would not answer—so he was shot—over there.”
He paused, with intent to let the full weight of his words sink deep in the other’s mind. Like most wild or semi-civilised people, the Gularzai freebooter was a character reader, and knew his man. But, before the other had time to answer, an interruption occurred, as startling as it was unforeseen.
All were watching the result of the dialogue between the chief and the prisoner. Fierce eyes glared beneath shaggy brows, claw-like fingers felt the edge of tulwars, foul and sticky with blood that had already been shed. Eagerly heads were bent forward, awaiting the word that should hand this Feringhi over to their scarcely-glutted blood lust and hate.
“Hear me, O great Sirdar,” cried a voice, pitched in loud, harsh tones. “Hear me, I can give the information thou requirest, O Sword of the Prophet.”
The Levy Sowars who had surrendered, to the number of about a dozen, were grouped on the outskirts of the freebooters. From one of these the voice proceeded.
“Let him come forward,” said Murad Afzul.
Way being made the speaker advanced. He was a youngish man, tall and well built, with aquiline features and a short curling beard.