“What then? Wouldst thou juggle with the favor I have shown thee?”
This time the sword impinged on the Adam’s apple in Hossein Beg’s throat, and he shrank as far as his bonds would permit.
“Say not so, Khudâwand,”[18] he gurgled. “I swear by my father’s bones I meant no ill.”
“Mayhap. Nevertheless, I shall take care thy intent is honest, Hossein Beg. Write now and pay heed to thy words, else jackals shall rend thee ere to-morrow’s dawn.”
By this time the man was reduced to a state of abject submission. Possibly his offer of the ekka-wallah’s services was made in good faith, but Malcolm liked the looks of the man as little as he liked the looks of his master, and he preferred to trust to Chumru’s nimble wits rather than the stupid contriving of a peasant, no matter how willing the latter might be.
The zemindar, having written, was gagged again, and the pair were left to that torture of silence and doubt they had not scrupled to inflict on those who had done them no wrong. They were tied to a tree-trunk in the heart of a clump, and a hundred men might pass in that lonely place without discovering them, whereas Hossein Beg and his subordinate could see easily enough through the leafy screen that enveloped their open-air prison.
Half an hour later, Hossein Beg’s ekka arrived on the open space that adjoined the village ghât. At one end was a mosque—at the other a temple. In the center, at a little distance from the bank, was a square modern building, evidently the warehouse in which the English ladies were pent.
With the ekka came a rissaldar of cavalry, riding one horse and leading two others. When he dismounted a scabbard clattered at his heels, for Malcolm now had the pistols between his knees as he sat behind the tightly drawn curtains of the vehicle.
“Mohammed Rasul!” shouted the rissaldar, loudly. “Where is Mohammed Rasul? I must discourse with him instantly.”