And what luck he had had—­all his life!  Born fated!

Had he fainted again or slept?  And could he hear the tinkle of ice against the sides of a tall thin tumbler of lemonade, or was it the sound of a waterfall of clear, cold water close by?  Were the servants asleep, or was the drink he had ordered being prepared?...  No—­he was dying in agony on a red-hot rock, surrounded by vultures and probably watched by foxes, jackals and hyenas.  And a few yards away were the rifle that would have put him out of his misery, and the water-bottle that would have alleviated his pain—­to the extent, at any rate, of enabling him to think clearly and perhaps scribble a few words in blood or something, somehow, for Lucille ...  Lucille!  Would the All-Merciful let him see her once again for a moment in return for an extra thousand years of Hell or whatever it was that unhappy mortals got as a continuation of the joys of this gay world?  Could he possibly induce the vultures to carry him home—­if he pledged himself to feed them and support their progeny?  They could each have a house in the compound.  It would pay them far better than eating him now.  Did they understand Pushtoo or was it Persian?  Certainly not Hindustani and Urdu.  People who came shooting alone in the desert and mountains, where vultures abounded, should learn to talk Vulture and pass the Higher Standard in that tongue.  But even if they understood him they might be unwilling to serve a coward. Was he a coward?  Anyhow he lay glued with his own blood to the spot he would never leave—­unless the vultures could be bribed.  Useless to hope anything of the jackals.  He had hunted too many foxes to begin now to ask favours.  Besides they could only drag, and he had been dragged once by a horse.  Quite enough for one lifetime.  But he had never injured a vulture.  Pity he had no copy of Grimm or Anderson with him—­they contained much useful information about talking foxes, obliging birds, and other matters germane to the occasion.  If he could only get them to apply it, a working-party of vultures and jackals certainly had the strength to transport him a considerable distance—­alternately carrying and dragging him.  The big bird, stalking nearer, was probably the macuddam or foreman.  Would it be at all possible for vultures to bring water?  He would be very willing to offer his right hand in return for a little water.  The bird would be welcome to eat it off his body if it would give him a drink first.  Did not ravens bring meat to the prophet Elijah?  Intelligent and obliging birds.  Probably cooked it, too.  But water was more difficult to carry, if easier to procure.

How close they were coming and how they watched with their horrible eyes—­and pretended not to watch!...

Oh, the awful, unspeakable agony!  Why was he alive again?  Was his chest full of terribly rusty machinery that would go on when it ought to stop for want of oil?...  If pain is punishment for sin, as placid stall-fed Holy Bill held (never having suffered any), then Damocles de Warrenne must have been the prince of sinners.  Oh God! a little drop of water!  Rivers of it flowing not many miles away!