Then he rode back to his own men.
“Where starts the trail to Khinjan?” he asked; not that he had forgotten it, but to learn who knew.
“This side of Ali Masjid!” they answered all together.
“Two miles this side. More than a mile from here,” said Ismail. “What next? Shall we camp here? Here is fuel and a little water. Give the word--”
“Nay-forward!” ordered King.
“Forward?” growled Ismail. “With this man it is ever 'forward!' Is there neither rest nor fear? Has she bewitched him? Hai! Ye lazy ones! Ho! Sons of sloth! Urge the mules faster! Beat the led horse!”
So in weird wan moonlight, King led them forward, straight up the narrowing gorge, between cliffs that seemed to fray the very bosom of the sky. He smoked a cigar and stared at the view, as if he were off to the mountains for a month's sport with dependable shikarris whom he knew. Nobody could have looked at him and guessed he was not enjoying himself.
“That man,” mumbled Ismail behind him, “is not as other sahibs I have known. He is a man, this one! He will do unexpected things!”
“Forward!” King called to them, thinking they were grumbling. “Forward, men of the 'Hills'!”