By this time the yogi had approached within a pace or two of the lads, who were quickly walking away from the scene, and fifty yards to the rear followed admiring groups. The yogi leaned his head forward, spitting forth his curses, and then ostentatiously drew a knife from the folds of his loincloth, and changed his tone in a most unexpected manner.
“Take me prisoner! Quick, sahibs!” he hurriedly whispered. “I have news for you. Your pistols, quick!” and then he made pretence to strike at the nearer boy.
Alec was the quicker to act. He whipped out his revolver, and, springing towards the yogi, who had recoiled, placed the muzzle against his head. The group of Hindus howled with rage.
“Come along, you rebel dog!” Alec shouted in Urdu. “Well see how you like being shot out of a cannon.”
“That’s right,” whispered the yogi encouragingly, and aloud he shrieked appeals to his gods to destroy the Englishmen. Ted had now hold of one of the strange fellow’s arms, and together they dragged him along, he making pretence to resist.
“What do you want?” Alec whispered.
“I am loyal, but I am suspected, and there are spies perhaps watching even now. If I had come to the English camp with the news, or even spoken to you in a friendly manner, I might have lost my life. Three times have I performed puja here in the hope of a chance of speaking to an English officer unsuspected. My news is that Dundu Pant of Bithur is at Pindijang. Now let me wrest myself free, and you must chase me.”
“How can we know that your news is true?” asked Ted dubiously.
“Ask Lawson Sahib if he will believe Pancham Tewari. He will know.”
An adroit twist and wrench and the yogi was free and running down the road. Ted fired—and missed—and Alec followed suit, both taking care not to hit the man. The onlookers howled with delight at the supposed discomfiture of the Feringhis, and the yogi turned and cursed them afresh, and the boys judged it best to retire when they saw the mob pick up stones and advance to protect the holy man.