The Malay saw their looks; and making a sign to them, he crossed to the door and threw it open, admitting with the rays of the morning sun the glinting of the spear-heads of half a dozen stout Malay guards.
Closing the door, he beckoned to the prisoners to come to the windows.
Hilton essayed to rise, but sank back upon his mats with an ejaculation indicative of pain, for the attempt was full of suffering to his swollen limbs.
Chumbley, though in pain, was more successful, or more fall of fortitude, for he struggled to his feet, and heavily tottered across the bamboos and mats to the window, which was covered with a beautifully-scented creeper, and through which a pleasant prospect was visible of undulating woodland and dense jungle.
“Quite fresh to me,” muttered Chumbley; “I wonder where we are?”
Not till he had had this glance round did he pay any heed to the Malay, who was pointing to a group below each window of three well-armed men.
“They are to kill you if you try to go,” he said, quietly; and then, with a meaning smile, he left the room, fastening the door with some kind of bar.
“This is atrocious!” cried Hilton, as he bit his lip, and pressed his swollen wrists; while Chumbley dropped at full length upon the mats, turned upon his back, and began to rub his legs.
“A—bom—i—na—ble,” he drawled.
“That scoundrel Murad is at the bottom of it, I’ll swear,” cried Hilton. “Hang the fellow! I could shoot him like a dog.”