Mr Burne made a start forward, but he was roughly held back, and the chief then turned to Yussuf.
“Tell them,” he said in his own tongue, “to write to their friends, and ask for the ransom—two thousand pounds each, and to say that if the money is not given their heads will be sent. Bid them write.”
The fierce-looking scoundrel turned and stalked out of the place with his booty, and the moment he was free, Mr Burne dropped upon his knees and began sweeping the fallen snuff together in company with a great deal of dust and barley chaff, carefully placing the whole in his handkerchief ready for clearing as well as he could at his leisure.
“That’s just how they served us,” said Mrs Chumley dolefully. “I thought they would treat you the same.”
“So did I,” said her husband dolefully. “They’ve got my gold repeater, and—”
“Now, Charley, don’t—don’t—don’t bother Mr Preston about that miserable watch of yours, and I do wish you wouldn’t talk so much.”
“But we must talk, madam,” cried Mr Burne. “Here, you, Yussuf, what’s to be done?”
“I can only give one piece of advice, effendi,” said Yussuf gravely; “Write.”
“What, and ruin ourselves?”
“Better that than lose your life, effendi,” replied the guide. “These people are fierce, and half savage. They believe that you have money, and they will keep their word if it is not sent.”