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"Do you want to die, a little slowly, before all those obedient worshipers of yours, and in such a way that they will see and understand that you can not help yourself, and therefore are a fraud?" The Beluchi repeated the question in the guttural tongue that apparently the fakir best understood.
That's the third useless Hindu fanatic within a week who has talked about India being drenched in blood. Let him go in to the depot under guard, and do his prophesying there! Bring him along." The sentry's rifle-butt rose again and threatened business. The Beluchi gave a warning cry, and the fakir tumbled off his dais.
"Stand by to haul tight, you men!" "All ready, sir!" The rope tightened just a little just sufficiently to keep the fakir cognizant of its position. The fakir howled out a sort of singsong dirge, which plainly had imperatives in every line of it. At each short pause for breath he added something in an undertone that made the Beluchi strain his ears. "He says, sahib, that they understand.
"Translate, you!" he ordered. "To the crowd out yonder first. Shout to 'em, and be careful to make no mistakes." "Speak, then, sahib! What shall I say?" "Say this. This most sacred person here is our prisoner. He will die the moment any one attempts to rescue him." The Beluchi translated, and repeated word for word.
As the native ran off to get the butcher-knife and sharpen it, it was noticeable that he wore a chastened look. "Send Sidiki after me!" Brown shouted after him, and a minute later a nearly naked Beluchi struck a match and emerged from the darkness, with the light of a lantern gleaming on his skin.
He needed no further invitation to commence his cursing. It burst out with a rush, and paused for better effect, and burst out again in a torrent. The Beluchi hid his face between his hands. "Now translate that!" commanded Brown, when the fakir stopped for lack of breath. "Sahib, I dare not! Sahib " Brown took a threatening step toward him, and the Beluchi changed his mind.
"Just a wee shade tighter!" ordered Brown. "I'm not sure, but I think he's seeing reason!" The fakir gurgled. No one but a native, and he a wise one, could have recognized a meaning in the guttural gasp that he let escape him. "He says 'All right! sahib!" translated the Beluchi. "Good!" said Brown. "Ease away on the rope; men! And now! You all heard what I told him.
The light glinted off his eyes, and off the only other part of him that shone the long, curved, ghastly fingernails that had grown through the palm of his upstretched hand. "How did you get here?" demanded Brown, not afraid to speak, for fear that fright would take possession of himself as well as of his men, but quite well aware that the fakir would not answer him. Then he remembered the Beluchi.
And the Beluchi translated. "I'd like to hear their trigger-springs released," suggested Brown. "This has all been a shade too slick for me. I've got my doubts yet about it's being done. Tell him to order them to uncock their rifles, so that I can hear them do it." "He says that they are gone already!" translated the Beluchi.
The Beluchi passed the question on, and the fakir tossed him an answer to it. "He says, sahib, that the gods will see to it." "So the gods obey his orders, do they. Well, they've a queer sense of duty! What else does he prophesy?" "About your soul, sahib, and the sentry's soul." "That's interesting! Translate!"
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