"With the last word she breathed her last breath. And such is mother love."
There was a suppressed sob in more than one breast at the close of the venerable hakeem's tale. Down his own furrowed face the tears were streaming.
"And the woman who struck the foul blow?" inquired the Afghan in an eager whisper.
"The slave mother of the dead pretender. Well, she too had given her all for mother love. The tribesmen tore her limb from limb."
And the hakeem pressed a hand to his eyes to shut out the memory of a dreadful scene.
VIII. THE SACRED PICKAXE
TOLD BY THE MAGISTRATE
The first wolf-grey of the dawn was creeping over the scene, and turning to a sickly yellow the flare of the little oil lamps arranged around the veranda. The morning air bit shrewdly, and more than one of the seated or reclining figures had gathered his robes more closely around him. All eyes were now turned on the kotwal. He alone of the company had not contributed from his store of experiences.