There was a peculiar hissing noise behind where Beecher sat, as if some one had drawn his breath sharply through his teeth, and he turned quickly, to see the two regimental servants looking very white; but their faces were as hard as if cut in wood.
"Horrible!" said Hollins, in a low, hoarse voice; "and the people all looking on as if it were a fête! Ugh! I can stand leading our lads in a charge, and get warm at it, but this gives me the chilly blues."
"Yes, horrible!" said Beecher; "and that Rajah sits smiling as if he enjoyed it."
"Well, you haven't much room to talk; you sat through it all as coolly."
"I?" exclaimed Beecher.
"Yes; I watched you. Well, I suppose it's all over, and we may as well come to an understanding with my lord here. I want to go. But I say, I hope he didn't see me showing the white feather. Did he?"
"The white feather! Nonsense! You didn't move a muscle."
"Couldn't if I'd wanted to. Here: the sultan's speaking to you."
Beecher turned and faced the smiling chief.
"There are more to die," said the latter coolly.