King set the flask to his own lips and drank a few drops.
“Salaam, sahib!” said the jezaitchi, wheeling his horse to ride away.
King let him ride twenty paces before calling to him to halt.
“Come back!” he ordered, and rode part of the way to meet him.
“I but tried thee, friend!” he said, holding out the flask.
“Allah then preserve me from a second test!”
The jezailchi seized the flask, clapped it to his lips and drained it to the last drop while King sat still in the moonlight and smiled at him.
“God grant the giver peace!” he prayed, handing the flask back. The kindly East possesses no word for “Thank you.” Then he wheeled the horse in a sudden eddy, as polo ponies turn on the Indian plains, and rode away down the wind as if the Pass were full of devils in pursuit of him.
King watched him out of sight and then listened until the hoof-beats died away and the Pass grew still again.
“The jezailchis'll stand!” he said, lighting a new cheroot. “Good men and good luck to 'em!”