“Look ye!” howled the mullah. “Look ye and look well, for this is to be one of us!”
King felt ten thousand eyes burn holes in his back, but the one pair of eyes that mocked him from the bridge was more disconcerting.
“Turn, Kurram Khan! Turn that all may see!”
Feeling like a man on a spit, he revolved slowly. By the time he had turned once completely around, besides knowing positively that one of the two bracelets on her right arm was the one he had worn, or else its exact copy, he knew that he was not meant to die yet; for his eyes could work much more swiftly than the horn-rimmed spectacles made believe. He decided that Yasmini meant he should be frightened, but not much hurt just yet.
So he ceased altogether to feel frightened and took care to look more scared than ever.
“Who paid the price of thy admission?” the mullah howled, and King cleared his throat, for he was not quite sure yet what that might mean.
“Speak, Kurram Khan!” Yasmini purred, smiling her loveliest. “Tell them whom you slew.”
King turned and faced the crowd, raising himself on the balls of his feet to shout, like a man facing thousands of troops on parade. He nearly gave himself away, for habit had him unawares. A native hakim, given the stoutest lungs in all India, would not have shouted in that way.
“Cappitin Attleystan King!” he roared. And he nearly jumped out of his skin when his own voice came rattling back at him from the roof overhead.
“Cappitin Attleystan King!” it answered.