So? I was in his hands. O, the bitterness of my reflection that Azad, the cruellest of men, held me thus in his power, and that far from having captured me I, Traprock, had deliberately ridden into his arms. The humiliation, the ignominy of it. By a desperate movement I managed to struggle to my feet.
Bound as I was, with my head covered I must have presented the appearance of a contestant in some grotesque gymkhana event. After a few convulsive leaps I fell heavily, landing in the live embers of the cook’s fire over which hung a kettle of some nauseous brew which I promptly upset in my spasmodic efforts to escape the burning brands; all this to the accompaniment of uproarious laughter.
Rolling over in one final wriggle I felt something hard under my hands back of me. My grasp tightened on it by instinct as I lost consciousness from faintness and suffocation. I knew vaguely that I was being lifted by two men after which I was thrown down heavily; then blackness closed about me. Matters were not looking their best.
My first impressions of Azad were gained from his voice. He had returned to his camp during my fainting spell and stood not far from the spot where I had been thrown.
“Well, did you get the women?” asked one of his followers.
“No,” he said. “By her side was a mighty Sheik—a Moplah—so my spy tells me, a man of great strength and cunning. I resolved to bide my time. Tonight she will be alone with her half-witted husband and her idiot of a Karawan-bashi and—”
“You say a Moplah chief was with her?” questioned an unfortunate follower who had not learned the penalty of speaking out of turn in a conversation with Azad; “why this very day....”
He got no further. Azad gave an almost inaudible command at which the interrupting voice suddenly thinned to a wheeze as if the wind-pipe had been closed by violent pressure. A convulsive gurgling sob was followed by a low moan and I felt the impact of a body falling heavily on the sand near me.
Though I could see nothing I must confess that Azad’s voice was the most unpleasant I have ever heard. Far from being harsh and dominating it was low, cool, almost tired. It faded away at the end of sentences as if the possessor had withdrawn himself from human contact. I sensed the presence of one to whom human life, even his own—was nothing. If a snake had a voice I feel sure it would be the voice of Azad.