When he awoke to consciousness Campian realised that he was lying on a
charpoy, within a low, mud-plastered room.
His limbs were no longer bound, but his whole frame ached from head to
foot with a racking pain. With the first attempt to move he groaned,
and once more closed his eyes. That last fearful ordeal had been too
much for nerve and brain. Even now, as he awoke, the recollection of it
came back with a rush.
A slight rustling and the sound of a quiet footstep caused him to look
forth once more. A bearded, long-haired Baluchi was standing beside the
bed with an earthen bowl in his hand.
"_Kaha Syyed Ain Asraf hai_?" queried Campian.
But the man only shook his head, set down the bowl, and departed.
He drank the contents, which consisted of slightly curdled goat's milk,
and feeling vastly better, made up his mind to rise.
The turban he had before worn was lying beside him. Twisting it on, he
sallied forth.
The sun was sky high, but the air was no longer the scorching breath of
the desert. It was fresh, almost cool. As he looked around he could
see the towering head of a mountain beyond the line of roof.
A sort of labyrinth of mud-walls confronted and puzzled him, but of
inhabitants he saw not a soul. Making his way carefully forward he came
upon an open space, but walled in all round; in fact, he seemed to be in
a kind of walled village, and of the surrounding country nothing could
he descry but the mountain overhead.
Several savage looking Baluchis stood or squatted in groups. These
muttered a sulky "salaam," but their faces were all strange to him; not
one among them seemed to have been of the party amid which his lot had
formerly been cast. Women, too, here and there were visible--that is to
say, their clothing was, for their closely drawn chuddas, with the two
circular, barred eyeholes, conveyed to the spectator no sort of idea as
to whether the face within was young or old, pretty or hideous, comely
or hag-like.
Again he inquired for the old Syyed, only to meet with the same
unconcerned headshake. The mention of Buktiar Khan met with no more
satisfactory result. This was bad. The cross-eyed ex-chuprassi,
slippery scoundrel as he might be, was, at any rate, somebody to talk
to, and, furthermore, a valuable mouthpiece. For the kind-hearted old
Syyed he had conceived a genuine regard, and it was with something like
a real pang of regret that he missed the benevolent face and paternal
manner of that venerable saint. But, more important than all, he missed
the feeling of protection and security which the latter's presence had
inspired, and which, he realised with a qualm, he might only too soon
need; for a more forbidding, murderous looking set of ruffians than the
men who inhabited this village he thought he had never in his life
beheld.
Two of these, engaged in their devotions, on one side of the square,
attracted his attention. Moved by a desire to propitiate, he went over
to them, and putting off his shoes, spread his chudda beside them and
began to do likewise. And now, for the first time--realising his
insecurity, and missing the presence of his kind old preceptor--in his
strait and loneliness, a kind of reality seemed to come into the
formula; and bowing himself down towards Mecca, he felt that this creed
which unified the hearts of millions and millions might even be ordered
so as to form a link of brotherhood between himself and the fierce
hearts of those surrounding him--and, let it come from whatever source
it might, the inspiration was a sustaining one. He arose with renewed
confidence--even something of renewed hope.
Such, however, was not destined to last. As the days went by the
demeanour of those around grew more and more hostile--at times even
threatening. They would hardly reply to his civil and brotherly
"salaam," and would scowl evilly at him even during prayer. It began to
get upon his nerves.
And well it might. In the first place he was a close prisoner, never
being suffered to go outside the loop-holed walls, and the want of
exercise told upon his health. Then, he had no idea as to where he was,
or for what purpose he was being kept: that it was with the object of
ransom he had more than begun to abandon hope, since the weeks had
dragged into months, and yet no sign from the outside world. Into
months--for there were signs of approaching winter now. The peak of the
overhanging mountain took on more than one cap of powdery snow, and the
air, at nights, became piercingly cold. And then with the growing
hostility of those around, he framed a theory that they were but
awaiting the return of Umar Khan to put him to death, with such adjuncts
of cruelty as that implacable barbarian might feel moved to devise.
Would his fate ever be known? Why should it? Orientals were as close
as death when they chose to keep anything a mystery. But what mattered
whether it were known or not? Vivien? She would soon forget--or find
some "duty" to console her, he told himself in all the bitterness
fostered by his unnerved and strained state. No--but of her he would
not think; and this resolve, framed from the earliest stage of his
captivity, he had persistently observed. He needed all his strength,
all his philosophy. To dwell upon thoughts of her--only regained in
order to be re-lost--had a perilous tendency to sap both.
All manner of wild ideas of escape would come to him, only to be
dismissed. He had made one attempt, and failed. If that had been
unsuccessful--near home, so to say, and in country he knew--what sort of
success would crown any such effort here in a wild and unknown region,
which, for aught he knew, might be hundreds of miles from any European
centre? To fail again would render his condition infinitely worse, even
if it did not entail his death.
At last something occurred. It was just after the hour of morning
prayer. A sound struck full upon his ears. Away over the desert it
came--the long cracking roll of a rifle volley. Then another, followed
by a few scattered and dropping shots. Others had heard it, too, and
were peering through the loopholes in the outer wall. Faint and far it
was, but approaching--oh, yes, surely approaching.
Rescue? Surely this time it was. A clue to his whereabouts had been
found, and the search expedition had discovered him at last. The blood
surged hotly in his veins at the thought--but--with it came another.
Would these barbarians allow him to leave their midst alive? Not
likely.
Then a plan formulated itself in his mind. He would retire to the room
he occupied and barricade the door. That would allow his deliverers
time to appear in force. So far, however, the people within the village
fort made no hostile movement towards him. They seemed to have
forgotten his presence, so engrossed were they in observing what might
be going on outside. At last, however, the gates were thrown open to
admit three men on camels, supporting a fourth. Him they lowered
carefully to the ground, a fresh stream of blood welling forth from his
wounds as they did so, crimsoning his dirty white garments; and, in the
grim, drawn countenance, with its set teeth and glazing eyes, Campian
recognised the lineaments of Ihalil Mohammed.
The man was dying. Nothing but the tenacity of a son of the desert and
the mountain would have supported him thus far, with two Lee-Metford
bullets through his vitals. There he lay, however, the sands of life
ebbing fast, the very moments of his fierce, lawless, predatory career
numbered.
"You take care. Baluchi very cross," murmured a voice, in English, at
Campian's side. No need had he to turn to recognise in it that of
Buktiar Khan.
The warning was needed--yet even then, fully alive to his peril, he
could not forbear hurriedly asking what had happened. As hurriedly the
ex-chuprassi told him; which he was able to do while loosening the
saddle girths of his camel, the attention of the others, too, being
occupied with the dying man. A body of native horse led by two English
officers had come up to a neighbouring village, but the _malik_ who
ruled it had refused to allow them the use of the wells. The cavalry
had persisted, and then the Baluchis had fired upon them. There had
been a fight, and then a parley, and the English officers had set off in
pursuit of Umar Khan, who had been present until he saw how things were
going with his countrymen.
"No. The sahibs not come here. Umar Khan go right the other way,"
concluded Buktiar. "But--you take care--Baluchi very cross."
If ever there was point in a warning it was at that moment. Several of
those around Ihalil turned their heads and were eyeing the prisoner
ominously. The dying brigand, too, with hate in his glassy stare,
seemed to be muttering curses and menace, then with a last effort, spat
full in his direction. It was as though a signal had been given.
Campian, however, was quick and resourceful in his strait. In a flash,
as it were, he had whirled Buktiar's tulwar from its scabbard as the
ex-chuprassi was still leaning over his camel-gear, and with a rapid cut
had slashed the face of the foremost of the ferocious crew which now
hurled itself, howling, upon him. Then two or three quick bounds
backward and he was within his apartment, with the door banged to, and
the charpoy and a heavy chest which stood in the room so wedged against
it that it could not be forced by any method short of knocking out the
opposite wall.
For a while the hubbub was appalling, as the infuriated Baluchis hurled
themselves against the door, bellowing forth terrific shouts and curses.
The beleaguered man within stood there, his tulwar raised, panting
violently with the excitement and exertion, prepared to sell his life at
the price of several, for a desperate man armed with a tulwar and driven
to bay, is no joke--to the several. Then there was a sudden silence.
Campian, with every faculty of hearing strained, was speculating what
new device they would adopt to get at him. He had no hope now. It was
only a question of time. Then Buktiar's voice made itself heard,
calling out in English: "You come out I'sirdar--he want speak with you."
"Sirdar? What sirdar? Oh, skittles! You don't come it over me with
that thin yarn, Buktiar," replied Campian, with a reckless laugh,
evolved from the sheer hopelessness of his position.
"No. I speak true. I'sirdar--he just come--I'sirdar Yar Hussain Khan."
"Umar Khan, you mean--eh?"
"No--not Umar Khan. Yar Hussain--big sirdar of Marri."
"How am I to know if this fellow is lying or not?" soliloquised Campian
aloud. "See here, Buktiar. You're a damned fool if you don't do all
you can for me. You know I promised you a thousand rupees."
"I know, sahib. This time I speak true. You come out or I'sirdar
p'r'aps get angry and go away."
Campian resolved to risk it. Therein lay a chance--otherwise there was
none. Cautiously, yet concealing his caution, he flung open the door,
and stepped boldly forth, his very intrepidity begotten of the extremity
of his strait.
No. The ex-chuprassi had not lied. Standing there, his immediate
retinue grouped behind him, was a tall, stately figure. Campian
recognised him at a glance. It was the Marri sirdar, Yar Hussain Khan.
Behind the group several horses were standing, the chief's spirited
mount, with its ornate saddle cloth and trappings, being led up and down
the square by one of the young Baluchis. Not a weapon was raised as the
beleaguered man stepped forth. The village people stood around, sullen
and scowling.
"Salaam, Sirdar sahib!" said Campian advancing, having shifted the
tulwar, with which he would not part, to the left hand. "Buktiar,
remind the chief, that when we met before, at the jungle-wallah sahib's
camp, he said he would be glad to see me in his village, and--here I
am." And he extended his right hand.
But Yar Hussain did not respond with any cordiality to this advance,
indeed at first it seemed as though he were going to repel it
altogether. However, he returned the proffered handshake, though
coldly--and the sternness of his strong, dignified countenance in no
wise relaxed as he uttered a frigid "salaam."
Then a magical change flashed across his features, and his eyes lit up.
Throwing his head back, he stared at the astonished Campian.
"Put forth thy hand again, Feringhi," he said, in a quick, deep tone, as
though mastering some strong emotion. Wondering greatly--as the request
was translated by Buktiar--Campian complied. And now he saw light.
What had attracted the chief's attention was a ring he wore--a quaint
Eastern ring, in which was set a greenish stone covered with strange
characters.
"Where obtainedst thou this?" inquired Yar Hussain, still in the deep
tones of eager excitement, his eyes fixed upon the ring.
"From my father, to whom it was presented by an Afghan sirdar whose life
he was the means of saving. It was supposed to bring good fortune to
all who wore it. Have you ever seen a similar one, Sirdar sahib?"
But for answer there broke from several of those on either hand of the
chief, and who, with heads bent forward, were gazing upon the circlet,
hurried ejaculations.
"The Durani ring!" they exclaimed. "Yes, Allah is great. The Durani
ring!"
They stared at the circlet, then at its wearer, then at the ring again,
and broke forth into renewed exclamations. Yar Hussain the while seemed
as though turned into stone. Finally, recovering himself he said:
"This is a matter that needs talking over. We will discuss it within."
At these words the _malik_ of the village fort, with much deference,
marshalled the sirdar to his own house. With him went Campian and two
or three followers. Buktiar Khan, to his unmitigated disappointment,
was left outside. When they were seated--this time comfortably on
cushions, for this room was very different in its appointments to the
bare, squalid one which had been allotted to the prisoner hitherto--one
of the Baluchis addressed Campian in excellent English, to the latter's
unbounded astonishment.
"The sirdar would like to hear the story of that ring," he said. "You
need not fear to talk, sir. I am his half brother. I learnt English at
Lahore when I was Queen's soldier, so I tell the sirdar again all you
say."
Decidedly this was better than being dependent on an unreliable scamp
such as Buktiar Khan, and Campian felt quite relieved. For somehow he
realised that his peril was over--probably his oft repeated trials and
wearing captivity, but that might depend upon his own diplomacy, and
what deft use he might make of the circumstance of the ring.
For a few moments he sat silent and pondering. The story of the ring
was so bound up with that of the ruby sword and the hidden treasure that
it was difficult to tell the one without revealing the other. The
information which he himself possessed declared that the only man who
would be likely to know anything about the matter was the Syyed Ain
Asraf. He, however, had not recognised the ring. Could there be two
Syyeds Ain Asraf?
Then he remembered that Yar Hussain was of Afghan descent. Did he know
anything of the hiding of the treasure, or at any rate where it was
hidden? The first was possible, the second hardly likely, or he would
almost certainly have removed it.
"What was the name of the Durani sirdar?" asked Yar Hussain at last.
"Dost Hussain Khan," replied Campian. "He is my father," said the
chief, "and he rests on the rim of Paradise. There is truth in thy
statement, O Feringhi, who--they tell me--art now a believer. He was
saved by a Feringhi, and an unbeliever, yet a brave and true man, and
for him and his we never cease to pray."
"Then are we brothers, Sirdar," said Campian, "for the man who saved the
life of thy father is my father."
The astonishment depicted on the faces of those who heard this statement
was indescribable.
"Ya Allah!" cried the chief, raising hands and eyes to heaven.
"Wonderful are Thy ways! Hast thou a token, Feringhi?"
"Is not that of the ring sufficient?" returned Campian, purposely
simulating offence. "If not, listen. The Sirdar Dost Hussain Khan,
when pressed by his enemies, concealed his treasures, principal among
which was a ruby hilted sword of wellnigh priceless value. This
treasure is lost. None know of its whereabouts to this day."
The chief's kinsman, whose name was Sohrab Khan, hardly able to mask his
own amazement, translated this. An emphatic assent went up from all who
heard.
"The treasure was enclosed in a strong chest of dark wood, three cubits
in length, covered with words from the blessed Koran, and clamped with
heavy brass bindings," went on Campian. "The Durani sirdar was killed
by the Brahuis. And now, why has the secret of its whereabouts been
lost? Does not the Syyed Ain Asraf know of it?"
The astonishment on the faces of those who heard found outlet in a
vehement negative.
Then Sohrab Khan explained. The Syyed, he said, knew nothing. All that
the Feringhi, now a believer, had said was true. But the Sirdar Yar
Hussain Khan would fain repurchase the ring, because there was a
tradition in their house that its gift to an unbeliever--good and brave
man as that unbeliever was--had caused the disappearance of the
treasure. When it was recovered the secret of the whereabouts of the
ruby sword and the other valuables would be revealed. Would five
thousand rupees repurchase it?
To this Campian returned no immediate answer. He was turning the matter
over in his mind--not that of the sale and the proffered price, for on
that head his mind was clear. Of whatever value this lost property
might be, these people, and they alone, had any claim to it. There was
a strange fatality about the way they had been enabled to save his life,
and that at the most critical moments--first the Syyed Ain Asraf when
the sword of Umar Khan was raised above his defenceless head--now the
arrival of Yar Hussain and his following in time to rescue him from the
savage vengeance of the friends and kinsmen of Ihalil. His father had
foregone any claim upon the treasure, even when a share of it was
proffered him by the grateful potentate whose life he had saved; and now
he, too, meant to make no claim. He had ample for his own needs--all he
asked was restoration to liberty. Yet even for this he did not
stipulate.
"Listen," he said at length, and during the time occupied by his
meditations it was characteristic that no word or sign of impatience
escaped those dignified Orientals, notwithstanding the grave import of
the matter under discussion. "It seems that the tradition relating to
the recovery of the ring is one of truth. For if it was given to an
unbeliever--albeit a brave and true man--now is it recovered by a
believer. See"--holding out his hand, so that all might see the green
stone and its cabalistic characters--"see--am I not one of yourselves?
And now, O my brother, Yar Hussain Khan, I will restore unto thee this
treasure, even I; for it hath been revealed unto me. I have described
it and the chest which containeth it. Now, let us fare forth to the
valley called Kachin that thou mayest possess it once more."