This consisted in a number of golden vessels heavily encrusted with gems, a huge golden salver, and a dozen or more ropes of gigantic rubies!
Amid these treasures, the ransom of a Sultan, the price of a throne, he lay writhing convulsively.
Ramsa Lal was the first to recover himself. He leapt forward, seized the prostrate man by the shoulders and dragged him into the tent, past Moreen. Having effected this he raised his eyes in a mute question. She nodded, and whilst Ramsa Lal seized the Major’s shoulders, Moreen grasped his ankles, and together they lifted him up on to the bed.
He lay there, rolling from side to side. His eyes were wide open, glassy and unseeing; a slight froth was upon his lips, his fists rose and fell in regular, mechanical beats, corresponding with the convulsive movements of his knees.
Moreen dropped down beside him.
“Ramsa Lal! Ramsa Lal! What shall I do? What has happened to him?”
Ramsa Lal ripped the collar from Major Fayne’s neck in order to aid his respiration. Then, quietly signing to Moreen to hold the lamp, he began to search the entire exposed surface of the Major’s skin. Evidently he failed to find that for which he was looking. He glanced down at the ankles, but the Major wore thick putties and Ramsa Lal shook his head in a puzzled way.
“It is like the bite of a hamadryad,” he said softly, “but there is no mark.”
“What shall I do!” moaned Moreen—“what shall I do!”
There was a frightened murmur from the entrance, where the native servants stood in a group, peering in. Moreen stood up.