Ayeshi glanced up swiftly.
"And if I were not—if it proved a mistake—sometimes I am afraid——"
Barclay shrugged his shoulders. He was growing impatient. The merciless rain began to chill his blood. The roar of the river beat like the incessant thud of a hammer on his ears.
"What does it all matter?" he muttered. "If only this infernal rain would stop! It's dangerous. If the water overflows on the high ground up by Bjura we shall have to swim for it. That's what matters."
But suddenly Ayeshi bent down from his saddle and laid his hand on Vahana's shoulder.
"You promised!" he said, in a tense undertone. "You promised that today you would speak—that you would give me proofs to show my people. Now keep your promise to me. Vahana—justify me."
The fakir lifted his eyes to Ayeshi. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. He shrank back against Barclay's knee, cowering as from a blow. But his expression was triumphantly evil.
And Barclay, looking into Ayeshi's stricken face, came to a bitter understanding. Not only this boy, but all of them, were so many instruments in a master-hand. Their hates and ambitions had been woven skilfully into the greater pattern of a patient, insatiable vengeance. They were pawns in Vahana's game. They would be swept from the board. Vahana would go on to his own end.
Before this selfsame knowledge Ayeshi had faltered. Now he drew himself up in the saddle.
"Rasaldû is dead," he said quietly, yet with despair, "and Sahib Meredith and others—others. Justify me!"