It seemed to Zoe and Eirene that they had scarcely slept at all when they heard Maurice’s voice warning them that it was time to get up, and they looked at one another in dismay by the light which poured through the holes in the roof, realising that their faces were haggard and their hair full of hay.
“I suppose we can do our hair without a looking-glass,” said Zoe. “But do you think there is any hot water?”
The question sounded so absurdly incongruous that she was not surprised to hear it answered by a laugh from Maurice on the other side of the curtain. “There is a stream,” he said, “and you have leave to wash your faces and hands. You’re lucky to have kept your tooth-brushes, for Wylie and I have to use twigs, like the mild Hindu.”
“I shouldn’t have thought the brigands would care for tooth-brushes,” said Zoe.
“They don’t—for their teeth; they use them for cleaning their guns—I’ve seen them. So be thankful, and don’t shirk the cold water. I can even supply you with soap, for Milosch has just lent me a piece of our own, with strict injunctions to return it, and much self-congratulation on his generosity.”
“I think the estimable Milosch is becoming rather a bore,” said Zoe viciously, trying to shake the hay off her skirt. “Don’t go down until I have bandaged your head again, Maurice. I want to do it properly by daylight.”
“Considering the want of water and light up here, wouldn’t it be as well to do it downstairs?” suggested Maurice; and Zoe, agreeing, presently found herself and her patient the centre of interest to the brigands. This publicity had its advantages in that she quickly distinguished the man to whom her first-aid case had fallen, and with some difficulty obtained through Milosch its temporary restoration. While the interpreter strutted about, proclaiming loudly to the prisoners the magnanimity of their captors in thus providing them with surgical treatment, she cut away the hair round the cut, joined the edges with strips of plaster, and crowned Maurice with a turban of bandages, to the intense admiration of the spectators. As soon as she had finished, they hustled forward one of their number, who had received a somewhat similar wound in Haji Ahmad’s last desperate fight, and informed her, through Milosch, that he also required medical attendance.
“Don’t touch the dirty brute,” said Wylie. “I’ll tie him up roughly—quite good enough for him. He’s not fit for you to handle.”
“Oh no, I’ll do it,” said Zoe reluctantly, for the aspect of the wounded man was not alluring. “I never realised before ‘how very hard it is to be a Christian,’” she said, rather faintly, when the task was over, and one of the men filled the rough leathern bucket with fresh water that she might wash her hands.
“I don’t think practical Christianity need go quite so far,” said Wylie savagely, but the chief was calling to Zoe.