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King turned and faced the crowd, raising himself on the balls of his feet to shout, like a man facing thousands of troops on parade. He nearly gave himself away, for habit had him unawares. A native hakim, given the stoutest lungs in all India, would not have shouted in that way. "Cappitin Attleystan King!" he roared.
King obeyed, without looking at the thing, and Ismail, turning to face the crowd, rose on tiptoe and filled his lungs for the effort of his life. "The head of Cappitin Attleystan King infidel kaffir British arrficer!" he howled. "Good!" the crowd bellowed. "Good! Throw it!" The crowd's roar and the roof's echoes combined until pandemonium. "Throw it to them, Kurram Khan!"
"But a very little while ago I spoke with King sahib in Ali Masjid Fort, and he is no cappitin, he is leftnant. Therefore thou art a liar twice over nay, three times! Thou art no officer of Khyber Rifles! I am a jezailchi, and I know them all!" "None the less," said King, "I am an officer of the Khyber Rifles, newly appointed. I asked you, have you a letter?" "Aye!" "Let me see it." "Nay!"
And he nearly jumped out of his skin when his own voice came rattling back at him from the roof overhead. "Cappitin Attleystan King!" it answered. Yasmini chuckled as a little rill will sometimes chuckle among ferns. It was devilish. It seemed to say there were traps not far ahead. "Where was he slain?" asked the mullah. "In the Khyber Pass," said King.
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