“No, no; don’t do that,” I whispered, as I tried hard to realise that I was awake, and had been dreaming.
“Well, I’m too tired to get up. I’ve had a nap too, and you’ve been breathing pretty hard, but not snorting and gurgling like that old wretch. Here, hi! you, sir,” he cried in Hindustani.
“The sahib wants his servant?”
“Yes—no,” cried Brace. “What are you doing?”
“Thy servant was keeping watch over his masters, and smoking his chillum.”
Brace’s charpoy creaked, and he uttered a curious laugh even in Hindustani.
“That’s right; go on. I did not know what it was in the dark.” Then to me: “Did you understand what he said?”
“Only partly. Didn’t he say he was smoking?”
“Yes; puffing away at his old hubble-bubble. There he goes again.”
For the snorting, gurgling sound recommenced, and I knew that the candle had burned out, while I was struggling in the horrors of a nightmare-like dream.