“Poggul!” snarled the Mohammedan.
“Poggul's no password!” said the sentry. “Neither to my good-nature nor to nothing else. Put up your 'ands, and get on your feet, and march! Look alive, now! Call me a fool, would yer? Wait till the sergeant's through with yer, and see!”
The Rajput chose to consider a retort beneath his dignity. He rose, and took one quick look at the horse, which was still breathing.
“Your bayonet just there,” he said, “and press. So he will die quickly.”
The sentry placed his bayonet-point exactly where directed, and leaned his weight above it. The horse gave a little shudder, and lay still.
“Poggul!” said the Rajput once again. And this time the sentry looked and saw cold steel within three inches of his eye!
“Your rifle!” said the Rajput. “Hand it here!”
And, to save his eyesight, the sentry complied, while the Rajput's ivory-white teeth grinned at him pleasantly.
“Now, hands to your sides! Attention! March!” the Rajput ordered, and with his own bayonet at his back the sentry had to march, whether he wanted to or not, by the route that the other chose, toward the guardroom. The Rajput seemed to know by instinct where the second sentry stood although the man's shape was quite invisible against the night. He called out, “Friend!” again as he passed him, and the sentry hearing the first sentry's footsteps, imagined that the real situation was reversed.
So, out of a pall of blackness, to the accompanying sound of rifles being brought up to the shoulder, a British sentry—feeling and looking precisely like a fool—marched up to his own guardroom, with a man who should have been his prisoner in charge of him.