“Steady!” he repeated. “Be sure and let him breathe, until I give the word.” Then he seized the cowering Beluchi by the neck, and dragged him up close beside the fakir. “Translate, you!” he ordered. “To the crowd out yonder first. Shout to 'em, and be careful to make no mistakes.”
“Speak, then, sahib! What shall I say?”
“Say this. This most sacred person here is our prisoner. He will die the moment any one attempts to rescue him.”
The Beluchi translated, and repeated word for word.
“I will now talk with him, and he himself will talk with you, and thus we will come to an arrangement!”'
There was a commotion in the shadows, and somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty men appeared, keeping at a safe distance still, but evidently anxious to get nearer.
“Now talk to the fakir, and not so loudly! Ask him 'Are you a sacred person?' Ask him softly, now!”
“He says 'Yes,' sahib, 'I am sacred!”'
“Do you want to die?”
“All men must die!”