“The head of Cappitin Attleystan King--infidel kaffir--British arrficer!” he howled.
“Good!” the crowd bellowed. “Good! Throw it!”
The crowd's roar and the roof's echoes combined until pandemonium.
“Throw it to them, Kurram Khan!” Yasmini purred from the bridge end, speaking as softly and as sweetly, as if she coaxed a child. Yet her voice carried.
He lowered the head, but instead of looking at it he looked up at her. He thought she was enjoying herself and his predicament as he had never seen any one enjoy anything.
“Throw it to them, Kurram Khan!” she purred. “It is the custom!”
“Throw it! Throw it!” the crowd thundered.
He turned the ghastly thing until it lay face-upward in his hands, and so at last he saw it. He caught his breath, and only the horn-rimmed spectacles, that he had cursed twice that night, saved him from self-betrayal. The cavern seemed to sway, but he recovered and his wits worked swiftly. If Yasmini detected his nervousness she gave no sign.
“Throw it! Throw it! Throw it!”
The crowd was growing impatient. Many men were standing, waving their arms to draw attention to themselves, and he wondered what the ultimate end of the head would be, if he obeyed and threw it to them. Watching Yasmini's eyes, he knew it had not entered her head that he might disobey.