He was right. As the sun set, the assembly broke up. Performing their ablutions, as a priest sang the Azân, or invitation to prayer, they again collected, marshalled by the Peer, who took his seat in front, looking towards Mecca. All present, joined by hundreds of others from the camp, knelt on the ground in ranks, and obeying his movements, rose—bowed themselves—or kneeled, in unison—as the various changes of the Moslem liturgy required. When the service was over, all, wishing each other peace, with the blessing of God and the Prophet, separated for the night.
"Come into my tent," said the Khan to Pahar Singh, "thou art welcome. What of the work?"
"I am ready," he said; "I have two hundred of my best people with me."
"And I am not behind thee; my people are ready also, and wait thy pleasure," replied the Khan.
"Who is this, father?" cried Fazil, who now entered, having remained to speak with some friends. Fazil had not recognized the Fakeer of the King's Durbar, nor the Jogi of the temple; but there was a vague impression on his mind that he had seen the face under other circumstances.
"Pahar Singh, son; dost thou not know him?" he replied.
"A brave youth, the worthy son of a brave sire, may not object to receive the offering of an old soldier," said the chief, putting out his sword-hilt to Fazil, who touched it courteously; "and he shall have his share of the work if he may, Khan Sahib."
"What work? what is this?" whispered Fazil to his father, and taking him a step aside. "Do not trust him—he is one of them—all men say so. He is not true."
"He is as true as I am," replied the Khan. "I have already proved him, and thou wilt know all by-and-by. He has received the King's pardon, and confirmation of all his possessions. Do not doubt him, for he can render important service."