“Gone!” announced King. “He went with the other one!”
“Went whither? Did any see him go?”
“Is that thy affair?” asked King, and the man collapsed. It is not considered wise to the north of Jamrud to argue with a wizard, or even with a man who only claims to be one. This was a man who had changed his very nature almost under their eyes.
“Even his other clothes have gone!” murmured one man, he who had poked about among the packs.
“And now, Ismail, Darya Khan, ye two dunder-heads!--ye bellies without brains!--when was there ever a dakitar--a hakim, who had not two assistants at the least? Have ye never seen, ye blinder-than-bats--how one man holds a patient while his boils are lanced, and yet another makes the hot iron ready?”
“Aye! Aye!”
They had both seen that often.
“Then, what are ye?”
They gaped at him. Were they to work wonders too? Were they to be part and parcel of the miracle? Watching them, King saw understanding dawn behind Ismail's eyes and knew he was winning more than a mere admirer. He knew it might be days yet, might be weeks before the truth was out, but it seemed to him that Ismail was at heart his friend. And there are no friendships stronger than those formed in the Khyber and beyond--no more loyal partnerships. The “Hills” are the home of contrasts, of blood-feuds that last until the last-but-one man dies, and of friendships that no crime or need or slander can efface. If the feuds are to be avoided like the devil, the friendships are worth having.
“There is another thing ye might do,” he suggested, “if ye two grown men are afraid to see a boil slit open. Always there are timid patients who hang back and refuse to drink the medicines. There should be one or two among the crowd who will come forward and swallow the draughts eagerly, in proof that no harm results. Be ye two they!”