No one could have mistaken him in any dress, for aught but a soldier. He did not look as if patience and fair-mindedness were included among his virtues, which was unfortunate for Ambrose as the event proved.
As Watusk gave no sign of stirring, he was seized by many hands and boosted over the edge of the pit. He rolled over, knocking down some of the bushes and finally rose to his feet, standing with wretched, hang-dog mien.
His appearance, with the frock coat all rubbed with earth and the military gear hanging askew, caused the troopers to shout with laughter. Here was a change from the fire-eater of half an hour before.
"Ho!" cried Inspector Egerton. "The conqueror of the English!"
Watusk drew closer and began to whine insinuatingly. "I sorry I mak' that talk, me. I can' help it at all. Ambrose Doane tell me that. He put his medicine on me. I sick."
Ambrose attempted to cry out in his angry astonishment, but only a muffled groan issued through the handkerchief. He was not visible to the troopers where he stood in the corner, and he could not move.
"Is Ambrose Doane there?" demanded the officer.
Watusk quickly turned and spoke a sentence in Kakisa. Ambrose saw the look of craft in his yellow face. One of the men who guarded Ambrose drew his knife and cut his bonds and untied the handkerchief.
Ambrose's heart beat high. It never occurred to him that they could believe the wretched liar! He drew himself over the edge of the pit, helped by those behind.
"Hello!" he cried.