Sarbaland Khan's village was similar in every particular to that of the
greater potentate which we have already seen. Many eyes were watching
the approach of the party of four from the loop-holed mud walls, and the
glances directed at them as they entered the central courtyard, if not
uniformly expressive of good will, were visibly so of curiosity. For
these wild beings, to whom raids and forays and blood feuds were as the
very salt of existence, now beheld a strange sight--that of a man and a
woman--Feringhi infidels--with no other protection than a couple of Levy
Sowars, entering their village, quietly, fearlessly, unconcernedly, as
though in their own town at Mazaran, and the man was of importance, for
he represented the _Sirkar_ at Mazaran; yet here he walked alone into
their midst, and to all appearances unarmed. Ya, Allah! but these
Feringhi were a mad race--mad and incomprehensible. So pondered these
wild mountaineers, salaaming gravely, as they peered at the strangers
from beneath their shaggy brows.
The chief received them courteously, inviting them at once into his
house. Sarbaland Khan was a tall man with a fine presence and dignified
manner, and was clad in snowy white from head to foot. But the
appointments of his dwelling were plain in the extreme--the only
ornaments being a curious lamp or two, and a beautifully decorated
sword, which last, together with a couple of good magazine rifles, hung
on the wall. Three or four of his relatives helped to entertain them,
and Hilda Clive was vastly impressed with their natural dignity--indeed,
she could hardly believe they were of the same race as the shaggy,
scowling savages who had so lately threatened them. Tea was brought in,
served after the Russian method, and preserved fruits, and then she
asked if she could visit the chief's wives.
"I can do more than even you can, you see, Mr Raynier," she said gaily,
as permission having been given, she rose to follow the veiled figure
who was summoned to guide her. "So now for the mysteries of the harem."
Raynier's talk with the chief was purely non-official, this being a
merely friendly visit. He was asked about his predecessor, whom these
people seemed to have held in some estimation--and then they talked
about _shikar_. There were plenty of markhor in the mountains around
his village, declared Sarbaland Khan, and if Raynier Sahib would like to
come and stalk some, he would certainly find some sport. Then he sent
for some fine heads that had been recently shot to show his guest, and
presently these two, the up-to-date Englishman and the mountain
chieftain, having got upon this one grand topic in common, set to
discussing this branch of sport as animatedly as though fellow-members
of an English house party. In the midst of which discussion Hilda Clive
returned.
So strange are the writings in the book of Fate. At that very moment a
horseman was spurring--his objective the village of Sarbaland Khan. No
great time would it take him to reach it either, and did he do so with
the message he bore while this friendly conversation was in progress,
why, then, Herbert Raynier would never leave Sarbaland Khan's village
alive.
Yet now they took leave of each other with great cordiality--Raynier
expressing the hope of welcoming the Sirdar at the _jirga_, or assembly
of all the chief's and maliks, to be held shortly at Mazaran; and so
they fared forth.
"You have given me a most delightfully interesting experience, Mr
Raynier," said Hilda Clive, as they rode campward. "And I admire the
chief's taste. Two of his wives were very pretty, indeed, one quite
beautiful."
"How many has he got?"
"Only three. I expected he would have had about thirty."
Raynier laughed.
"They're only allowed four apiece by the Koran," he said. "But I
believe they find ways of driving a coach-and-six through that
enactment. Fine fellow Sarbaland Khan, isn't he?"
"Very. Why, he's a perfect gentleman. Really he's quite a
splendid-looking man."
"Many of these people answer to that description, that's why they are so
interesting. Tarleton describes them as `niggers.' But then the
British are first-rate at misnomers."
"I should think so. But how well you talk to them, Mr Raynier. Is it a
difficult language to learn. Anything like Hindustani, for instance?"
"No. There's a lot of Persian in it. I went in for learning Pushtu
some years ago, thinking it might come in useful--and it has. By the
way, a strange thing happened in London not long before I came back. I
can't help thinking that the man belonged to one of these tribes--but I
never saw him again, nor yet the stick I armed him with."
Then he proceeded to tell her about the incident of the Oriental in the
crowd on Mafeking night, and the part he and others had borne in his
rescue. Hilda listened, keenly interested.
"And you never got back the stick?" she said.
"No, never. I was going to say--worse luck--but it wasn't. On the
contrary, it was the only `lucky' part of the whole business."
The dry, satirical tone did not escape his listener's abnormally acute
perceptions. But the recollection seemed to revive the abstraction of
thought which had characterised him when they had first set out, and
which the incidents of their expedition had gone far to dispel. Now it
all seemed to return. This, too, did not escape her, and she was
striving to piece the two circumstances together. But as yet all
connectedness failed.
They were returning by a somewhat different route, and were already
about half-way to the camp. The sun was sinking, and the barren and
rugged surface of rock and stunted vegetation was taking on a softer
tinge as the westering glow toned down its asperities. But there was a
feel in the air as of impending change, and the wind, which had died
down altogether, now began to rise in fitful puffs, raising thin spiral
columns like dust waterspouts, which whirled along at intervals on the
plain around.
"Is there going to be a storm?" said Hilda.
"Yes. But not before we are in camp again."
He subsided into silence. It was possible that the strange
oppressiveness in the atmosphere affected him, to the exaggeration of
that which was on his mind, to wit the very disagreeable burden of the
news he had just received. Or it may have been that the certainty was
brought home to him that a month ago it would not have affected him to
any appreciable extent. The unpleasantness, the scandal, would have
been just the same, but, somehow, it would have mattered little then.
Now it did. But why?
What was to be done? was his ever-present thought. It was simply
abominable that he should be pursued in this way. Had the woman no
sense of shame? Evidently not. He had heard of ships going down at sea
with all on board; was he tempted to feel that this was clearly too good
a piece of luck--seen from his point of view--to happen to the one which
comprised among its passengers Cynthia Daintree?
What was to be done? He looked at his companion. Should he frankly put
the case to her? She was like no other woman he had ever known for
clear insight into and ready grasp of the main facts or probabilities of
any given question--at least, so he had found reason to decide during
their somewhat short acquaintance--which, somehow or other, did not seem
short. She could not be more than five or six and twenty at the
outside, and yet the knowledge of human nature and capacity for the
analysis of human motives she displayed was simply wonderful. He could
put it to her as the case of a third party, or simply a case in the
abstract, such as they had often debated and threshed out together, and
then he laughed at himself in bitter contempt. Where were the qualities
with which he had just been endowing her, that she could fail for one
single instant to see through so miserable a device? He must put it to
her frankly or not at all; and somehow Hilda Clive was the last person
in the world to whom he desired to put it at all.
She, for her part, riding beside him, perforce in silence, was thinking
of him and his unwonted taciturnity. Some trouble had come upon him--
that was certain, and she connected it with the arrival of the mail.
Could she but induce him to confide in her? Yet, why should he? She
did not know. Still, she wanted him to; for a strange indefinable
instinct moved her to the conviction that she could help him. During
their acquaintance she had learnt to hold him in high esteem. She
admired him, too, for his unassuming nature, the more so that she was
able to gauge the real depth of quiet power that lay beneath it. She
had noted the ease of his intercourse with these wild and turbulent, but
interesting people--for this visit to Sarbaland Khan's village was not
the first time she had been among them in Raynier's company--and noting
it, knew that it bore testimony to the estimation in which he was held
by them; for these sons of the desert and mountain, in common with all
barbarians, are quick readers of character, and have no respect for that
which is weak. And yet, could she have divined what was troubling him
then it would have assumed such trivial proportions to her mind, so
simple a solution, as to make her laugh outright. And she knew a great
deal more about him than he did about her; indeed, the news she had
received that morning, and which had somewhat elated her, mainly
concerned him.
"What abstruse problem is weighing on your mind, Mr Raynier? Do you
know that since we left the chief's village you have hardly spoken a
word. And we are almost home again."
He started.
"I beg your pardon. How very remiss of me. Well, I was thinking of
something. As a matter of fact, it's something that's worrying me more
than a little."
"You had bad news?"
"Yes. And yet hardly in the sense of what people understand by bad
news. But it was something of an extremely vexatious and worrying
nature, and likely to cause me no end of unpleasantness."
"I'm so sorry," she said, in a tone which invited further confidence.
It decided him. He would tell her.
A high ridge rose between them and the camp. This they were the while
ascending by a rough road leading to the kotal by which it was crossed.
Now, from the other side of this, there boomed forth a long, low,
rattling thunder roll.
"Hallo! The storm is a great deal nearer than I thought," he exclaimed,
looking up. "We must hurry on, Miss Clive. I don't want you to get
caught in the thick of it."
No time for confidences was this, he decided. All women were afraid of
thunder and lightning, though all would not admit it. What, then, would
be the use of consulting this one on a delicate and highly unpleasant
matter what time her thoughts would be running on how quickly at the
earliest they could reach the camp?
Another peal rolled forth, dull and distant, tailing off into a sort of
staccato rapping rattle.
"Well, these mountains do give out the most extraordinary thing in
echoes I ever struck," he said. "Or else that's about the strangest
peal of thunder I ever heard."
A clinking sound behind caused both to turn. Mehrab Khan, who, with the
other sowar, had been some way behind, was galloping to overtake them,
and that at a pace which is hardly put on in ascending such an acclivity
unless under weighty necessity. But even before he could come up with
them, the dark figure of a horseman appeared on the kotal above, and
came flying down the rough and stony road. They made him out to be
another of the Levy Sowars.
The pace was too great, or the rider too weak. He was flung off, almost
at their very feet--a terrible sight, covered with blood and dust. With
a word to Hilda Clive to wait where she was, Raynier and Mehrab Khan
went forward to examine the man.
They were only just in time. He could gasp forth a few words, and then
fell back dead. Raynier's voice was very serious as he returned to the
girl.
"We cannot go back to camp now, Miss Clive," he said. "We must travel
the other way. But keep up your courage--you have plenty of it--and we
will bring you through all safe."