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Updated: June 14, 2025
"Warwick Sahib shoots from the ground and so will I. And sometimes he goes forth with only one attendant and I will not need even one. And who can say perhaps he will find me even a bolder man than Gunga Singhai; and he will take me in his place on the hunts in the jungles."
After much confusion and shouting and falling over one another, and gazing at Little Shikara as if he were some new kind of a ghost, the villagers got a stretcher each for Singhai and the Protector of the Poor.
The Burman, however, had more of the outer signs of alertness; and yet there was none of the blind terror upon him that marked the beaters. "Where are the men?" Warwick asked quietly. "It is strange that we do not hear them shouting." "They are afraid, Sahib," Singhai replied. "The forest pigs have left us to do our own hunting." Warwick corrected him with a smile.
Besides, the superstitious Burmans thought that Warwick was walking straight to death that the time had come for Nahara to collect her debts. Warwick Sahib and Singhai disappeared at once into the fringe of jungle, and silence immediately fell upon them. The cries of the beaters at once seemed curiously dim. It was as if no sound could live in the great silences under the arching trees.
But they were not to have any such horror story to tell their wives. Only one of the three by the ford, Singhai, the gun-bearer, was even really unconscious; Little Shikara, the rifle still held lovingly in his arms, had gone into a half-faint from fear and nervous exhaustion, and Warwick Sahib had merely closed his eyes to the darting light of the firebrands.
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