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 rea.s.serted 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 spa.r.s.e 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 G.o.d."

"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 G.o.d? Have ye not broken into his hour of prayer, with brawling and strife? Would you further d.a.m.n 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.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

HOPES AND FEARS.

A Regimental band was playing in the grounds of the Shalalai Club, which inst.i.tution const.i.tuted the ordinary afternoon resort of the society of the station.

A row of subalterns were roosting on the railing in front of the exclusively male department of the club, while their dogs fought and frisked, and snarled and panted, on the sward underneath. Every variety of dog--large and small, mongrel and thoroughbred--was there represented; indeed far more variety than might have been discerned among their owners, who, for the most part, were wonderfully alike; as to ideas, no less than in outward aspect.

As the afternoon wore on, more subs would ride up by twos and threes, on bicycles or in dog-carts--or even the homely necessary "gharri"--with more dogs, and after going inside for a "peg," would emerge to swell the ranks of those already on the rail; their dogs the while engaging in combat with those already on the sward.

This rail-roost was a deeply cherished inst.i.tution, which no consideration apparently was able to shake; whether the frowns or hints of superiors, or the attractions of the ornamental s.e.x. This was scarcely surprising, for the ornamental s.e.x as represented at Shalalai was, with very little exception, singularly unornamental; which, though paradoxical, was none the less fact.

The tennis courts were in full blast, with a fringe of spectators.

There were many sunshades and up-to-date hats and costumes scattered about the lawn, yet upwards of forty British subalterns roosted upon the railing.

"Hallo, c.o.x," sung out one, hailing a new comer. "When are you going to catch Umar Khan?"

"No betting on this time, c.o.x," said another, "unless it's on Umar Khan."

He addressed was a handsome, pleasant, fresh faced young fellow, who held a somewhat important political post. The point of the banter on the subject of Umar Khan was that c.o.x had started in pursuit of that bold bandit immediately on receipt of the news of the Mehriab station affair. He had started absolutely confident of success, but he might as well have started to stalk the wily markhor with the regimental band playing before him. That had been some weeks ago, but as yet neither c.o.x nor anyone else had ever come within measurable prospect of laying the marauder by the heels.

"Oh, _bus_!" retorted c.o.x. "Pity they don't turn out some of you fellows after him. A week or so of tumbling about among rocks and stones would do you all the good in life. Anyone know where Upward's to be found, by the way?"

"The jungle-wallah? He was in the billiard room just now knocking fits out of old Jermyn with that tiger-potting stroke of his. Why? Anything fresh turned up?"

"I expect you fellows will soon be started after Umar Khan," retorted c.o.x, looking knowing, as he turned away to find Upward.

"Wonder if he really means it?" said one of the rail-roosters, after he had left, and then they fell to talking about the notorious brigand, and discussing a current rumour to the effect that the Government contemplated arresting the princ.i.p.al Marri chiefs for suspected complicity in Umar Khan's misdemeanours, and holding them as hostages against the surrender of that outlaw, and the safe restoration of his prisoner.

"Wonder if that poor devil Campian's throat has been cut yet?"

conjectured someone.

"More than likely. If not it will be, directly any of the chiefs are interfered with."

"They won't bone Mr Umar Khan," said another Solon of the rail-roost.

"He's skipped over into Afghanistan long ago, and the Amir won't give him up, you bet. Shouldn't wonder if he was at the bottom of it all himself." At that time the Amir of Kabul was a very Mephisto in the sight of the collective and amateur wisdom of the Northern border.

A wave of interest here ran along the line of the rail-roosters--evoked by the bowling up of a neat dogcart, whose occupants, two in number, were alighting at the door of the feminine department of the club.

"By Jove! Those are two pretty girls. And neither belong here," added the speaker plaintively.

"She _can_ handle the ribbons, that Miss Wymer," cut in another of more sporting vein, who had been critically surveying the arrival of the turn-out. "She's got a fine hand on that high-actioned gee of old Jermyn's. Isn't that the brute that Wendsley had to sell because his wife couldn't drive him?"

"No. You've got the affair all mixed," returned yet another emphatically. And then, while a warm horse argument grew and thrived among one section, another continued and fostered apace the discussion concerning those just deposited there through the motive power of the quadruped under dispute.

"I don't think Miss Wymer is pretty," declared a Solon of the rail.

"She's awfully fetching, though."

"Rather. There's a something about her you don't often meet with, and you don't know what the devil it is, either. By the way, wasn't old Bracebrydge properly smashed on her?"

"Oh, he's that on every woman under the sun--in rotation. This one let him have what for, though."

"Did she? Eh, what about? How was it?" exclaimed several.