“Let him be, Salaman,” I said quietly. “I’m not afraid of the old fellow. He will not hurt me.”
“I do not think his curses will hurt, my lord,” he replied, “but he might strike.”
“He had better not,” I said sharply, in Hindustani, as if for the fakir to hear. “If he does, holy man or no, I’ll knock him over. I’m growing stronger now.”
Salaman came close behind me, and whispered, “No, no, my lord, don’t strike him; push him away, he is very old and mad; but he must not be hurt.”
At that moment Dost began in a very low voice and went on, with his declamation growing louder, till it was a roar, when he suddenly ceased, and dropped down on the ground with his legs under him in the position of an Indian idol, and, with his chin upon his breast, sat there perfectly silent, and as if in rapt contemplation.
Salaman seemed puzzled, and Dost looked like a statue that had been very much knocked about.
“What shall I do, my lord?” he whispered. “I do not like to touch him; he would begin to curse again.”
“Then pray don’t touch him,” I said testily. “He will go to sleep now; he is tired.”
“It is not sleep,” whispered Salaman. “He goes into a state that may last for hours or days. Will my lord come to his tent?”
“No,” I said emphatically; “if I move, perhaps it will set him off again. Let him stay and curse the rajah when he comes.”