"I'm afraid it's no use, Bah Hmoay," said Phipson as he shook off his assailant like a rat, and, throwing him heavily, placed the barrel of his revolver against his temple.
Click! click! The handcuffs were on him like a flash of lightning, and the Boh was surrounded by a group of men.
"This is Bah Hmoay himself," said one of the policemen as he held a rudely improvised torch at the face of the captive.
"There isn't another of them alive on the island," said Bishen. "Two were killed by your honour, two I have accounted for, and this is the last."
"Where is the sahib?"
"He awaits you in the boat," said Bishen, and a chill went through Phipson's heart.
"Why--what is the matter? Speak, can't you?"
"The doctor sahib will tell. Some one from the island fired, and the sahib, he was standing, fell back in the boat; but the doctor sahib's knowledge is great. He will live."
Bah Hmoay was subjected to the indignity of being frog-marched to the boat. He was flung in without much ceremony, and a loaded carbine held at his head. When Phipson reached his friend he found him unconscious, and sadly the two boats rowed back to the village. As they approached Phipson saw by the still burning town the tall figure of Serferez Ali talking to Smalley, and close by the white fluttering of a woman's dress.
"By God!" he groaned, "I don't think it was worth it, even for this. Jackson, old man, can't you speak?"