“Of course! What could Lennox expect? They know the expedition is foredoomed to disaster, and they will keep their beasts out of it if they can. And with insufficient transport——”
“I wouldn’t say ’twas insufficient. Brian says”—Eveleen smiled at the remembrance of the note scrawled on the envelope—“that the General is reconsidering his high opinion of his dear nice camels now he sees them at work, and that he’d be sorely tempted to shorten them all by a neck if it could be done without diminishing their usefulness. There’s four miles and a half of them, so he says.”
“Four miles and a half? Fifteen feet each? Only fifteen hundred,” he calculated rapidly. “And the General’s own things must require a hundred at least—more probably two—and other officers in proportion. What is there left——?”
“Now there you’re wrong.” Eveleen smiled openly. “Four camels and no more—that’s the General’s share. A soldier’s tent—his fine grand one is left here—and everything else to match. And other people are cut down just the same.”
“This is more and more serious. I had hoped he might be held back by the inadequacy of his transport, but he may succeed in actually penetrating into the desert. And there—what with spies and false guides to lead him astray or into ambushes, and secret emissaries who will cut the water-skins at night and leave him destitute, and that dastardly practice of poisoning the wells—why, we have all the materials for the most shocking disaster that has ever befallen British arms!”
“But sure he has Shahbaz Khan with him, and he swears he’ll make him taste all the water first! It’s a pity it wouldn’t be that old wretch Gul Ali, but Ambrose says he has gone and made himself scarce again.”
“Made himself scarce? Do I understand Sir Henry was so ill-advised as to subject the poor old fellow to personal restraint?”
“Not a bit of it! He was staying with his brother Shahbaz—quite free, and as happy as possible. Sir Harry calls on Shahbaz, and sends word he’ll pay his respects to Gul Ali to-morrow. But when to-morrow comes the poor silly old creature is gone, leaving word that he never really meant to resign the Turban—’twas all a mistake.”
“A mistake! Of course; who could have thought otherwise? He hoped to placate Sir Henry by submission, and finding, as he must think, that his malice still pursues him, he withdraws his abdication and seeks safety in flight.”
“But ’twas all properly written out in his Koran, in the presence of all the holy men they could get together at Bidi,” persisted Eveleen. “Shahbaz Khan may have persuaded him to do it, but having done it, would you say he oughtn’t stick to it? Sometimes I wonder”—she stopped a moment—“will Shahbaz Khan be making mischief?”