“No. There were three, but I put one of them out of the fight some time ago. How long is it since I left our headquarters? I have lost track of time.”
“Ye left at noon yesterday. It’s now tin o’clock in the marnin’.”
“Then I was overcome all night by a tumble I took through a trap-door. Casey, I owe you a good deal for this—and you other men, too,” added the young Southerner.
“That’s all right, lieutenant,” said one of the men. “We are glad we reached you as we did. The troops ought to take possession of this place after this.”
“They shall, Netwood,—and keep a strict guard for underhanded work, too. That old priest—Gracious! What is he up to now?”
Gilbert took a step forward, and so did the others. Then all came to a stop, fascinated by the scene being enacted before them.
Wounded as he was, the old Buddhist had struggled to his feet, and tottered to another idol, one holding a bird and a dog in its hand. Before this idol the priest was waving his hands, and chanting in the same monotonous tone he had before employed. In his right fingers he clutched a dagger, with which he was making circles before the idol’s face.
“Looks as if he was going to carve the idol up,” whispered Netwood.
“Hush!” replied Gilbert. “Look at him! Isn’t it enough to make one’s blood run cold?”
“Hadn’t we better make him a prisoner?” put in the third soldier of the party. “He may become very dangerous when he’s worked up. His eyes—”