“’Perchance ’twould cure him of his madness if we bled the poor soul a little,’ cooed my brother, putting his hand to his cummerbund where was his long Afghan knife, and Ibrahim Mahmud lay still.  Picking up his big, green turban from beside his rug, I bound his arms to his sides and then, going forth, got baggage-cords from the oont-wallah and likewise his puggri, and Moussa Isa bound his feet and hands and knees.

“Then my brother called Suleiman Abdulla the oont-wallah, and bade Moussa Isa sleep—­which he did with his knife in his hand, having bound his foot to that of Ibrahim.

“‘Look, thou dog,’ said Mir Jan to Suleiman, ’should this rat-flea escape, thy soul and thy body shall pay, for I will put out thine eyes with glowing charcoal and hang thee in the skin of a pig, if I have to follow thee to Cabul to do it—­yea, to Balkh or Bokhara.  See to it.’  And Suleiman put his head upon my brother’s feet, poured dust upon it and said ‘So be it, Mir Saheb.  Do this and more if he escape,’ and we slept awhile.

“Anon we awoke, ate, drank and smoked, my brother smoking the cheroots of the Sahib-log and I having to be content with the bidis of Suleiman as there was no hookah.

“And when we had rested we went and sat before the face of Ibrahim and gazed upon him long, without words.

“And he wept.  Like a woman he wept, and said ’Slay me, Mir Saheb, and have done.  Slay me with thy knife.’

“But my brother replied softly and sweetly:—­

“’What wild words are these, Ibrahim?  Why should I slay thee?  Some matter of a quarrel there was concerning thy torturing of my servant—­but I am not of them that bear grudges and nurse hatred.  In no anger slay thee with my knife?  Why should I injure thee?  I do most solemnly swear, Ibrahim, that I will do thee no wilful hurt.  I will but anoint thine eyes with the contents of this bottle just as I did anoint my own.  Why should I slay thee or do thee hurt?’

“And I chuckled aloud.  He was all Pathan then, Sahib, and handling his enemy right subtly.

“And Ibrahim wept yet more loudly and said again:—­

“‘Slay me and have done.’  Then my brother gave him the name by which he was known ever after, saying:—­

“‘Why should I slay thee, Ibrahim, the Weeper?’ and he produced the bottle and held it above that villain’s face.

“His screams were music to me, and in the joy of his black heart Moussa Isa burst into some strange chant in his own Somali tongue.

“‘Nay, our friends must hear thy eloquence and songs, Ibrahim,’ said my brother, after he had held the bottle tilted above the face of the Weeper for some minutes. ‘’Twere greedy to keep this to ourselves.’

“Again and again that day my brother would say:  ’Nay—­I cannot wait longer.  Poor Ibrahim’s weeping eyes must be relieved at once,’ and he would produce the bottle, uncork it, and hold it over Ibrahim’s face as he writhed and screamed and twisted in his bonds.