“I do as you say, sahib,” he returned resignedly. “But I wish these priests would go soon. They make the red mist to swim before my eyes.”
The meal was soon dispatched. Then, the priests having tied their hands again, went out. The party of prisoners were again in darkness.
There was silence for some minutes. Each was occupied with his own thoughts, except Jai Singh, who, with the philosophy of his race, curled up on the floor and went to sleep.
“What do you think about my boy, Carter?” asked Jefferson Arnold suddenly. “Surely there must be some way to save him?”
“There’s got to be,” answered Nick briefly.
“They wouldn’t be likely to kill him before we get out of this cell, do you think?”
“Not at all probable. They are to have this Festival of the Golden Scarab this afternoon, and, from what I gather, it is a very ceremonious affair, at which all the people of the city will be present. They will have us there to see the executions.”
“They’ll never execute my boy!” declared Jefferson Arnold.
“I promise you that,” said Nick Carter earnestly.
“I know I have a strong objection to being stuck on a shelf in that temple overhead. That seems the worst part of it,” remarked Chick.