"Nevertheless," he said, aloud, but as if talking to himself, yet careful that I should hear, "had this not happened to me I should have seen those camels on the sky-line. Did you count the camels?"
"Two hundred and eight," said I.
"How many armed men with them?" he asked. "My eyes are yet dim from the blow."
"One hundred and four," said I, "and an officer or two."
He nodded. "The prisoners would have been a nuisance," he said, "yet we might have used them later. What with camels and what with horses—and there is a good spot for an ambuscade through which they must pass presently—I went and surveyed it while they cooked my dinner—never mind, never mind!" said he. "If you had made a mistake it would have been disastrous. Yet—two hundred and eight camels would have been an acquisition—a great acquisition!"
So my self-esteem departed—like water from a leaky goatskin, and I lay beside him watching the last dozen camels cross our trail, the nose of one tied to the tail of another, one man to every two. I lay conjecturing what might have been our fate had I had cunning enough to capture that whole caravan, and not another word was spoken between us until the last two camels disappeared beyond a ridge. Then:
"Was there any man close by, when you found me?" asked Ranjoor Singh.
"Nay, sahib," said I.
"Was there any man whose actions, or whose words, gave ground for suspicion?" he asked.
"Nay, sahib," I began; but I checked myself, and he noticed it.