“Whybrow—whom you went to save?”
“And did not. Yes. But where is Colin?” he broke out fiercely. “You say he arrived at Gamara, was imprisoned—you know this? It is not merely a rumour of Whybrow’s fate? Then he must be there now—in the dungeon where I saw Whybrow——” his voice fell.
“No, no, he could not have lived so long—if all they say is true.”
“How do you know what a man can bear and live? You despise me, and abuse me, but you have never had the choice given you between Islam and being eaten alive by rats in an infernal hole underground. That is where Colin is—and that’s what Fazl-ul-Hacq meant when he was dying. There was some order he wished to give, and did not want me to hear, but he couldn’t get it out—curse him! If Colin had died or been killed, I should have heard of it. And that is where I shall be if I can live to get back there.”
“You mean to save him?” Colonel Keeling’s voice had taken a different tone.
“There is no saving any one from the dungeons of Gamara. But I can die with him. Was there no one”—with sudden fierceness—“who had common humanity enough to put that fellow in irons, or send him home as a lunatic, instead of letting him come after me? He was bound to be a martyr, but to let him rush upon his death in that—that way!”
He stopped in shuddering disgust, then laughed wildly.
“And how has the world gone with you, Keeling? Got your promotion, I see, but not exempt from trouble any more than the rest of us! But what mild, milk-and-water, bread-and-butter lives you lead down here! You should come to Gamara to see what primitive human passions are like.”
“Will you go?” asked Colonel Keeling, putting a strong constraint upon himself.
“You might let me have a word or two with the only Englishman I shall see till Colin and I meet among the rats in the well! Any messages for Colin? I suppose Penelope has forgotten us both long ago?”