“Dying? Blessed Allah!” cried Kasam, striking his forehead in despair. “Burah Khan dying, and our plans still incomplete! I have waited too long.”
“Perhaps not,” retorted the other, significantly. “It is a lingering disease, and you may yet get to Mekran in time.”
“In time? In time for what?” asked Kasam.
“To strike!”
Kasam stared at him. The tall Baluch smiled and shook the rein over his horse’s ears.
“I am of the tribe of Raab, my prince. May Allah guide you to success.”
Kasam did not reply. His head rested against the arched neck of his horse, and his form shook with a slight nervous tremor. But next moment he stood erect. The dazed look inspired by the bitter news he had heard was giving way to his old eager, cheery expression.
“All is not lost!” he said, speaking aloud. “Fate knocks, and I will throw open the door. Allah grant that Burah Khan lives until I reach Mekran!”
He sprang to the saddle, put spurs to his steed and dashed away at full speed into the desert.
“I hope,” said the Colonel, looking after him anxiously, “that nothing has gone wrong.”