Desmond watched him in a growing bewilderment that verged on impatience.
"What's up now?" he demanded sharply.
But no flicker disturbed the rigid face: the keen eyes gave no sign. The old man raised a hand as if enjoining silence, dismounted hastily, and, kneeling down, pressed his ear close against the ground.
Desmond's suspense was short-lived but keen.
In less than ten seconds the Ressaldar was beside him, one hand on his bridle, a consuming anxiety in his eyes.
"Hazúr, it is a spate from the hills," he said between quick breaths. "It is coming with the speed of ten thousand devils and there are five miles to go before we can leave the nullah."
"Mount, then," the Englishman replied with cool decision. "We can but ride."
And swiftly, as tired horses could lay legs to ground, they rode.
Desmond could catch no sound as yet of the oncoming danger; but the practised ears of the native detected its increase, even through the rattle of hoofs that beat upon the brain like panic terror made audible.