"MOHAMMED ER RASOUL ALLAH?"
"Ping-ping!" The bullets sang around him--splattering the rocks with
blue lead marks. Not for a moment did he think of stopping. They might
shoot him dead, but alive he would not yield. Besides there was one
last desperate chance, and he meant to try it.
The markhor cave! A final spurt would bring him to that. It was just
round yon shoulder of cliff, which at present concealed it. His
pursuers would not even see him enter it, and there were smaller holes
and crannies around which would puzzle them. Besides, he remembered
there were superstitions attaching to it. These might possibly deter
them from entering at all. It was a straw, but a slender one.
One great and final effort. He penetrated its normally forbidding but
now welcome blackness, and sank down panting on the rock-floor. For
some minutes he thus crouched, listening intently. He heard the rattle
of stones outside; now and then the tones of a deep voice, or the clink
of rifle-barrel or scabbard against the rock. The search was proceeding
right merrily, yet, why had it not begun here?
Some minutes went by. To the hunted man, crouching there, they meant
hours. Then the sound of steps approaching. They were going to search
the markhor cave. His last chance had failed.
The footsteps outside halted. Then he heard the voice of their owner
calling, and receiving answers from several other voices. He was
calling to his comrades to come and aid in the search. Superstition,
evidently, disinclined him to prosecute it alone. It could not be the
fugitive that he feared, seeing that the latter was unarmed, and
probably quite exhausted.
Then a wild and daring idea came into Campian's mind--in fact, so
utterly desperate a plan that were he allowed time to think of it, the
bare thought would suffice to send a cold shiver through his frame. The
chasm--into which he had so nearly stepped on the occasion of his first
and last visit to this place! The chasm--into whose black depths he and
Vivien had stood gazing, side by side. It was his last and only chance,
but--what a chance!
His matchbox contained a few wax vestas. The pursuers, probably still
collecting to explore the cave in force, had not begun to enter.
Groping his way round a rock corner which would partially or entirely
shield the light from those without, he struck a vesta, deadening, so
far as he was able, the sound with his hollowed hands. It flamed
forth--a mere flicker in the cavernous gloom. But it was sufficient for
his purpose.
There lay the black rift, like the great serpent for which he had at
first taken it. He was right at its brink. Then flinging into it the
spent vesta, he grasped the edge and let himself carefully down, hanging
by the grasp of his two hands alone on the lip of the fissure, in the
pitchy darkness over that awful unfathomable depth which seemed to go
down into the very heart of the earth.
The tension was fearful. He must let go. Every muscle was strained and
cracking. And now a glow of light told that his enemies were entering
with torches. Ha! he had overlooked that contingency. The light would
reveal his strained fingers grasping the rock. One cut of a tulwar--
and--
Then his feet came in contact with something--something that clinked
faintly as with the sound of metal. Groping carefully with both feet,
lo! they closed on what felt like an iron chain.
Heavens! it was a chain--a massive iron chain depending in some way from
the rock above. In the increasing glow of the torches he could make out
that. Here was a Heaven-sent chance. Grasping the great links firmly
with knees and feet, he let go, first with one hand, then the other, and
seized the chain. It, with its rough links, afforded a safe and solid
resting place for a time.
The pursuers had now arrived right at the brink. Their bizarre,
turbaned shadows on the opposite rock wall looked gnome-like in the
smoky glare of the torches. But in the said glare he recognised, with a
rush of hope, that unless they peered right over they could not see him,
for the chain hung from an iron bolt let into the rock, which here
projected just above his head.
The weird shadows on the rock danced and tossed, the guttering light
grotesquely exaggerating every movement. He who hung there could hear
the deep-toned voices right over him. The chain to which he clung
swayed and shivered with the concussion of the tramp of many feet above.
They held out a torch or two over the abyss, and dropped a few pebbles
down--even as he himself had done when with Bhallu Khan. He could hear
their exclamations as the stones struck far below with a faint thud.
Could he have understood them, his relief would have been greater still.
Among them, however, he thought to recognise the harsh, snarling voice
of Umar Khan.
"If the dog has gone down here," that worthy was saying, "why, then, he
is already suffering the torments of hell. If he entered this place at
all, how should he not have fallen in, seeing that it is darker than
night within the cave, and this hole is a pitfall to the unwary, and a
very entrance to the abode of devils?"
"In here he entered without doubt," said Ihalil Mohammed, "for every
other hole have we searched thoroughly."
To this the others assented. Their prisoner had undoubtedly given them
the slip. Dead or alive he would never be seen again.
All this the hunted man, thus hanging there, could not understand.
Would they never give up the search, he was wondering. Well for him
that he was in hard form and training--yet he was not so young as he
used to be, he recognised bitterly, as every joint and muscle ached with
the convulsive tension involved in thus supporting his own weight, for
an apparently unlimited period, entirely by compression. Well for him,
too, that the links were rough with red, flaky rust, thus affording
increased facility of hold. Yet would these hell hounds never give up
the search?
They were forced to at last. The red glow of the torches grew fainter,
then died out--so, too, did the sound of footsteps and voices. Campian
was in pitch darkness, suspended over this awful and unknown depth.
Now that the more active peril was withdrawn, and his attention thus
drawn inwards, he was able to think, to realise the full horror of his
position. How was he to return? Cramped, aching, exhausted, he felt as
though he could hardly hold on, let alone work his way upward. His
blood ran cold too as he realised what would have been his fate but for
this solid and substantial means of support right to his hand. Half a
yard further on either side, and--No, it would not bear thinking of, and
no sooner had he arrived at this conclusion than one foot, unconsciously
lowered, came in contact with something.
Something hard, wide, horizontal it was, for as he cautiously increased
the pressure he felt it sway and tilt slightly. Then, with equal
caution, he lowered the other foot on the other side of the chain. It,
too, met with like support. Carefully, with both feet, he increased the
pressure so as to test the weight, still preserving his hand-hold.
Nothing gave way, and his heart leaped within him as he found he had
secured a firm resting place whereon to recruit his strength against his
return climb.
And now, safe for the time being, his thoughts were busy with
speculation as to this structure hung here in the black depths of the
gulf. A great massive iron chain supporting a convenient swinging
platform, had not found its way there expressly to afford him a secure
refuge in the hour of peril, that much was certain. Then his nerves
thrilled and tingled as the conjecture uttered by Vivien in this very
place came back to his mind: "_What if the things are at the bottom of
that cleft_?" Heavens! Had this structure to do with the hidden
treasure--the priceless ruby sword?
Instinctively he sought his matchbox. No. That would be madness. His
pursuers might not even have left the entrance of the cave. Not for
hours would it be safe to strike a light.
And for hours, indeed, he hung there and waited. He groped around the
platform, first with one foot then with the other, and it dawned upon
him that the structure was no ordinary board, or it would have tilted.
It was a solid block of wood--no--a box.
A box? A chest! That was it. What if it held the treasure itself?
And then by a strange fatality the conviction that this would prove to
be the case took firm hold of his mind--and if so, by what a terrible
sequence of tragic events had he been constituted its finder. Would not
the recent dread experiences be worth going through to have led up to
this splendid discovery? All would yet be well. The best of life was
before him yet Vivien's last look, as he descended from their place of
refuge to purchase her safety by delivering himself into the hands of
their enemies, burned warm within his soul. When he returned safe, as
one who returned from the dead, what would not her welcome be? Surely
the glow of the old days would be as nothing to this.
These and other such thoughts coursed through his mind as he hung there
in the pitchy blackness--and indeed it was well for him that such was
the case. Nothing is more utterly unnerving than any space of time
spent in an absolutely silent and rayless gloom, but when, in addition
to that, the subject is swung on a hanging platform, whose very
stability he can vouch for with no degree of certitude, over a chasm of
unknown depth, and that for hours, why, he needs a mental stimulus of a
pretty strong and exalted type.
Judging it safe at last to do so, Campian struck a light. Feeble enough
it seemed in the vast gloom, and not until it had burned out were his
eyes capable of seeing anything after being for hours in black darkness.
Then, stooping as low as he dared, he lit another. Yes. It was even
as he had conjectured. The platform he was standing on was a box or
chest.
It was of very old and hard grained wood, almost black, and clamped
together with solid brass bindings. It showed no sign of having
suffered from the ravages of time, and the upper part, which was all he
could see, was covered with Arabic characters, curiously inlaid--
probably texts from the Koran. He had no doubt but this was what had
occupied so much of his thoughts, the hidden and forgotten treasure
chest of the fugitive Durani chief, Dost Hussain Khan. Little is it to
be wondered at if even there he felt thrilled with exultation as he
remembered what priceless valuables it certainly contained.
But that thrill of exultation sustained a rude shock--in fact died away.
For happening to glance up while lighting another match it came home to
him that whether the chest contained valuables or not, the probability
that he would ever be in a position to put that contingency to the test
was exceedingly slender; for to gain the brink of the chasm, and the
outer air again, looked from there an absolute impossibility. The
chain, and that which it supported, depended from a solid bolt let into
the rock, but the latter overhung it in a cornice or lip, which
projected nearly half a yard. He would never be able to worm himself
over this. And then it came home to him that he was beginning to feel
quite faint with hunger, and that his strength was leaving him fast.
Well, the feat must be attempted. Lighting another match--and he had
few left now--he sent a long steady look at the projection, the
fastening of the chain, and the distance from the edge. Then he began
his climb.
This was not great. The rock lip projected only about half a yard above
his hands at their highest tension. He drew himself up. He was under
the projection--groping outward along it in the darkness. Now he
gripped it firmly with both hands--still clinging to the chain with feet
and legs. He was about to swing himself off. One hand half-slipped
away. No, he could not do it. His strength failed him, likewise his
nerve. He was barely able to seize the chain again and let himself down
to the vantage ground of the box, where he stood literally trembling.
This would not do at all. He must rest for a few moments and recruit
his strength, must quell this shaky fit by sheer force of will. It
could not be--he argued with himself--that he had come through all this,
had made this royal discovery, by a chain of coincidences signal and
tragic, only to fail at the last; to be swept into nothingness; to
disappear from all human sight as completely as though dead and buried
already. He was a bit of a fatalist, too, and this partially supported
him now. If he was to come through safely, why he would--if not--! And
with this thought, as by an inspiration, came another idea.
He could never raise himself above the rock projection from which the
chain hung--that much was certain. But--the point whence he had let
himself down was only a foot to the right. There the edge did not
overlap.
Steadying his over-wrought nerves, he drew himself up once more.
Holding on tightly he reached forth one hand. It grasped the brink.
Carefully he felt along the hard rock. Yes--that would do. Now for it.
He put forth the other hand.
And now the moment was crucial. One arm was already along the floor
above the edge. Campian's fate hung in the balance there in the pitchy
gloom. Beneath him all black darkness, death, horror, annihilation.
The merest feather weight either way would turn the scale. He let go of
the chain with his feet. A last and mighty effort, and--he was lying
safe and sound on the rock-floor above; well nigh unconscious with
exhaustion and the awful strain his nerves had undergone.
For long he lay thus. Then the cravings of hunger became more than he
could bear. Physical nature reasserted itself. He must obtain food at
all risks. The forest bungalow was not far from that place. There he
would find it.
It must have been hours since he took refuge here. His enemies had
surprised him just at daybreak; now it was high noon. Prudence
counselled that he should wait until night--physical craving argued that
by then he would hardly have strength left him to make his way anywhere;
and the physical argument prevailed, as it ordinarily does.
He stepped forth quickly and gained the shelter of the juniper forest.
The glare of the sun blinded him, and the sparse foliage afforded but
poor shade. He staggered along exhausted, yet full of renewed hope and
resolution.
But for the mental and bodily exhaustion which half dulled his
faculties, he would have become aware of a peculiar nasal, droning sound
a short distance in front of him. As it was he hardly heard it, or if
so, missed its significance. When, however, he became alive to the
latter it was too late.
In a small open space, overhung on the further side by rocks, a score of
turbaned figures were kneeling. They were in two rows, and, barefooted,
were prostrating themselves in the approved method of the faithful at
prayer. Then, rising, repeated, with one voice, their orisons, which
were led by a single figure a little in advance of the rest. It was too
late. With the first footfall of the intruder, round came several
shaggy faces. The effect was magical. The entire band of fervid
devotees sprang to its feet as one man. Tulwars whirled from their
scabbards, and, in a moment, the intruder was surrounded. Well might
the latter now despair. Well might he realise that the bitterness of
death was indeed past. All that he had gone through was as nothing. He
had walked, with his eyes open, right into the midst of his enemies, had
placed, of his own act, his life in their hands. Foremost among the
threatening, scowling countenances was the repulsive, exultant one of
Umar Khan.
"Ah! ah!" snarled this implacable savage, with a grin of exultation.
"Lo, the sheep returns to the slaughter, for so wills it God."
"Allah?" repeated the destined victim, catching the last word.
"Hearken, Moslem, in hearken!" he called out in Hindustani, eyeing with
unconcern the uplifted sword of his arch enemy. Then, standing there in
their midst, and facing in the direction they had been facing while at
prayer, he extended both hands heavenward, and uttered in a loud, firm
voice:
"_La illah il Allah,
Mohammed er rasoul Allah_!"
A gasp of wonder went up from those who beheld. As by magic every
weapon was lowered. Campian had professed the faith of Islam.
For some moments these fanatical brigands stared stupidly at each other,
then at the figure of the sometime infidel, but now believer. The spell
was broken by their leader.
"It is well!" he said, advancing upon Campian, and again raising his
tulwar. "There is rejoicing in Paradise now, for in a moment it will be
the richer for a newly gained soul."
But before the weapon could descend, an interruption occurred. A little
bowed, bent figure came hurrying into the group. Campian recognised the
sometime leader of the devotions.
"Hold now, my children," he cried, in tones quavering with age and
excitement, as he interposed his staff and rosary between the weapon of
Umar Khan and its intended victim. "Have ye not grievously offended
God? Have ye not broken into his hour of prayer, with brawling and
strife? Would you further damn your own souls by shedding the blood of
a true believer within this holy _ziarat_ [a local shrine or
sanctuary]--for I myself have heard the profession of this Feringhi?
Have no fear, my son--have no fear," he added, turning to Campian, and
placing an aged, wrinkled claw upon one shoulder. "None shall do thee
hurt, thou, who art now one of the faithful--for if any harm thee,"
shaking his staff menacingly, "let him shrivel before the curse of the
Syyed Ain Asraf."
The only words of this address intelligible to the now ransomed victim--
though he understood the burden thereof--was the name--and at that he
could not repress a start of amazement. Those around beholding this
were equally astonished.
"See," they said among themselves. "Even to the infidel has the fame
and holiness of the Syyed Ain Asraf reached."
Even Umar Khan dare not openly resist the will of one so holy as the
Syyed, and that as a matter of fact. But though baulked for the
present, he turned sullenly away, meditating further mischief.