The guide was on foot, and studying the ground. He saw something shining, and, stooping to pick it up, found that it was a silver bead such as the women of these parts often wear in their bangles. He has told me that the excitement caused by this apparently simple discovery was so great that he could scarcely refrain from shouting it aloud. But, in the next moment, he realised that it might not mean anything—that, in any case, it would be unwise to place too much reliance upon it. This was the robbers' road, and it was more than possible that the bit of silver might have dropped from one of their bags of spoil. He went on examining the ground, and carefully scrutinising the walls of kutcha-grass. Presently he made another discovery; but it was so small a thing that no eyes save those of an experienced hunter of beasts and men, like Bâl Narîn, could have discerned it. Low down, where a weed, whose fleshy leaves are armed with spiked thorns, grew among the grass, he thought he saw a single white thread. Eagerly he swooped upon it, and picked it up, and now he could scarcely restrain his excitement, for the thread told the same tale as the bead. A muslin saree, such as those worn by women of the plains, had certainly swept those thorny weeds. It was probable that the bead had been dropped by the woman who wore the muslin veil. Taking them together, there could be little doubt that women dressed in the Indian fashion had passed this way. But, if so, there would be other signs that he could read—signs that might, perhaps, lead him straight to their hiding-place.
So, with bent head and beating heart, he proceeded on his search.
About a hundred yards further on he picked up another bead, which matched the first. He judged from its position—it was poised, as it were, on a little blade of grass, and the least agitation of the air would have dislodged it—that it had been only recently dropped.
Meanwhile, these narrow investigations had seriously delayed his progress. When he made this last discovery, he looked up and found himself alone. Those he was leading had gone on in front of him. The sound of the whistle, with which the rajah was accustomed to keep his little party together, came ringing down the lane at this moment. Bâl Narîn answered it with a peculiar call of his own, and a few instants later he heard the hoofs of his chief's horse, as Tom cantered back to find him.
'Rajah Sahib!' he cried out, waving him back. 'I cannot come on yet. You must have patience with me, and I may bring you news.'
'News here! You are dreaming, Billy,' answered Tom very sadly. 'Who could bring us news in this wilderness?'
'That is my concern, master. Leave me, I entreat of you, and, as you cannot go forward alone, let the men rest and eat! I will join you by-and-by.'
Mournfully the rajah turned his horse's head. This, of course, was one of Bâl Narîn's whims; but it would have to be indulged, for he was completely in his hands.
It was now late in the afternoon, and the men, who had been riding hard all day, were glad of rest and food. Languidly, for the air of these pestilential regions has a numbing effect upon the energies of men, the soldiers unsaddled and lighted a fire, round which they crouched, while one of their number cooked the dal and chupatties that served them for their meal. Tom dismounted, tethered his horse to a stake which his men had driven into the ground, and, feeling it unwise to join Bâl Narîn, who never liked to be disturbed when he was working out a fresh idea, strolled about aimlessly. The camels and bullock-carts, carrying their larger supplies, were coming up behind them, so he could not take his own meal; but, in fact, he did not want to eat. The excitement that had been working within him since Bâl Narîn sent him away made him feel that food would choke him.
His restlessness, meanwhile, was terrible. He was possessed with those miserable, impossible longings which come to most of us at the great crises of our lives—when our senses and the faculties bestowed upon us by Heaven seem too little for our need; when we crave madly for some indefinite power—some loosening of the bonds of our humanity—some super-sensuous divine knowledge and strength to carry us, at one leap, to the bourne where our restless hearts would be. Secrets, deep as the grave, and high as the infinite azure, are weighing down upon our little lives. In the level light of every-day life we forget them. They circle about us, and we see them not. It is when the light departs—when the little life with its little interests becomes tragic, that they come—this grey host of shadows—and mock us with our impotence. Sometimes we strike out blindly, as children strike at tables. We must know; we will know. It cannot be that we have reached thus far, and that never, through all the infinite ages that must be, we can reach any farther. That would be hideous—revolting to our moral sense. 'Give us light, give us light!' we cry out to the Power which, as God, or Nature, or blind Force, holds our destinies in its hand. 'Give us light, or kill us!' And only the awful silence answers us, 'Neither light nor death, poor soul; only a blind going forward to an unknown goal!'