And I could not move, even when I felt his left hand steal once into my breast, which hardly heaved, so utterly paralysed was I by my nightmare dream; ten times it seemed to me more terrible than the serpent I had found where the fakir’s hand now lay.
Chapter Thirty Nine.
In my horror, as I saw the knife flash, and as my senses became under my control, I was about to cry aloud for help, but grasping this, the hideous-looking being clapped his hand over my mouth, pressing it down tightly, while he quickly bent down his head till he could place his lips close to my ear, and whisper in English—
“Not a word, sahib! Don’t you know me! I am Dost.”
I uttered a low sigh, and then gazed at him, sick and dizzy, but with my heart beginning to beat wildly with a strange delight.
For at last help had come, and my task now was first to warn my faithful follower of the peril he had incurred, as I lay in mute admiration of the skill with which he had played his part, and, after struggling in vain to reach my well-watched tent, had by his ruse contrived to have himself brought to my side by my guards. The rest he had managed by himself.
I could not speak for some minutes. I dared not even try, lest he should hear how my voice trembled. At last, though, after lying quite still, holding my faithful follower’s hand, I whispered—
“How did you get here?”