His right arm was broken, his head bleeding, and the fallen beam that had caused the fracture had lain all night across his body, bruising him sorely. He wriggled from underneath, and finding himself too weak to rise he called loudly for help.
But what was this thing so soft below him, that had served as a pillow for his head all night? He passed his hand lightly over the object. It was a corpse—no, the flesh was warm! He placed his hand on the mouth and nostrils, and found that there was still breath in the body. His hand passed higher up until he touched the hair, and Pir Baksh gave a start. It was one of the two accursed Feringhis to whom he owed the agony he was now enduring. He sought for a knife, a bayonet, to plunge again and again into the unconscious body.
But Pir Baksh changed his mind. No, he would wait until the Englishman could feel and taste the bitterness of death. Revenge would be as nothing unless the victim could feel pain as great as his own. He there and then resolved to save the life of his enemy until he could plan and carry out his vengeance, for Pir Baksh had less pity than a tiger.
Again and again he called for help in the name of Allah, and at length his cries were heard. A few sepoys of his company approached with great caution, for day had not yet come.
“Who is there?” they called.
“It is I, Pir Baksh. Water!—bring me water if ye are followers of the Prophet!”
The cry for water from one Mussulman to another cannot be neglected, and a sepoy ran for a water-skin, while the rest made their way to the injured officer.
“All my bones are broken, I think,” said he. “Ye have been long in coming. Look! here is a Feringhi boy still alive. Nay, do not kill him; he shall die more slowly.”
He drank the water feverishly.
“Now, carry us to my brother’s house, and do not let all the people know that we have a prisoner, lest in their rage they should straightway kill him, for I mean to torture him by raising hopes. Bear me gently.”