Pahar Singh turned to the right into a small courtyard, in an open verandah of which several rough-looking men were sitting beside a body laid on the ground, and partly covered with a bloody sheet. They rose as the chief advanced, and saluted him.
"How is he now, Nursinga?" asked Pahar Singh; "will he live? Rama," he continued, bending over the man, whose eyes were evidently glazing fast, "Rama, dost thou know me—the master?"
The man looked vacantly around, hearing the words, smiled, and felt about with his hands, as if to clutch what it was denied him to see. Suddenly, and as the chief put his own hand into that which sought it, the dying eyes brightened, and met those of his master in a scared, wild gaze at first, but one which softened tenderly into a look of rapt affection. He tried to speak, but it was hopeless; to raise himself by drawing his master's hand to him, and clasping that he had in both his own—but in vain. The lips moved, and Pahar Singh bent his head down to listen. The bystanders could hear nothing; but Pahar Singh said in his ear loudly, "Yes, it shall all be done—all; fear not."
It was enough. Perhaps the man might have lingered a while if he had not been excited; but the old chief's words had suddenly rallied the flickering lamp of life. It had sparkled for a moment, and fell back, dull and smouldering, into the socket; the eyes again glazed, and the clasped hands relaxed their grasp, tried once more to recover it, failed, and fell powerless beside him, and the rugged bronzed features were fast growing into the strange majesty of Death.
"It is no use staying," said the chief, drawing away his hand to brush the tears from his eyes, "he will not know me again. Come, Meah; I, too, am growing a fool. See to him, all of you. If his brother come, well and good; if not, bury him decently, and not with the rest."
"Have you any retainer who is loved and trusted as you would trust a faithful hound?" asked Pahar Singh, suddenly turning round as they were walking out of the court. "Ah! I forget, dogs are impure to you Mussulmans," he continued; "forgive me."
"Nay, no forgiveness is needed," replied Fazil. "Yes, I have one as true and faithful to me as that poor fellow was to you."
"What is he?" asked the chief abruptly—"Mussulman or Hindu?"
"Hindu," replied Fazil; "a Mahratta."