It had been a daring capture, he reflected; but what were they keeping him for?  Not for the sake of hospitality—­of that he was grimly certain.  There had been no pretence at any friendly feeling on the part of his captors.  They had glared hatred at him from the outset, and Phil was firmly convinced, without any undue pessimism, that they had not the smallest intention of sparing his life.

But why they postponed the final deed was a problem, that he found himself quite unable to solve.  It had worried him perpetually for twenty hours, and, combined with the misery of his bonds, made sleep an impossibility.

Sleep!  The very thought of it was horrible to him.  It had never struck him before as a criminal waste of the precious hours of life, for Phil was young, and he had not done with mortal existence.  There were in it deeps he had not sounded, heights he had never scaled.  He was not prepared to forego these at the will of a parcel of murderous ruffians who chanced to object to the white man’s rule.  He had friends, too—­friends he could not afford to lose—­friends who could not afford to lose him.

Doubtless his murder would be avenged in due course; but—­He grimaced wrily to himself in the darkness, and tried once more to ease his cramped limbs.

From outside came the murmur of voices.  He could just see the shoulder of one of his guards at the entrance and the steel glint of a rifle-barrel.  He gazed at the latter hungrily.  Oh, for just a sporting chance—­to be free even in the midst of his enemies with that in his hand!

A shadow fell across the entrance, and he saw the rifle no more.  He saw the two Wari sentinels salaaming profoundly, and he began to wonder who the newcomer might be—­a personage of some importance apparently.

There followed an interval of some minutes, during which Phil began to chafe with feverish impatience.  Then at last the shadow became substance, moving into his line of vision, and a man, wrapped in a long, native garment and wearing a chuddah that concealed the greater part of his face, glided into the hut on noiseless, sandalled feet.

He held a naked knife in his hand, and Phil’s heart began to thud unpleasantly.  It taxed all a man’s self-control to face death in cold blood, trussed hand and foot and helpless as an infant.  But he gripped himself hard, and faced the weapon without flinching.  It would not do to let these murderous ruffians see a white man afraid.

“Hullo!” he said contemptuously.  “Come to put the finishing touch, I suppose?  You’ll hang for it, you infernal, treacherous brute; but that’s a detail you border thieves don’t seem to mind.”

It eased the tension to hurl verbal defiance at his murderer, and there was just the chance that the fellow might understand a little English.  But when his visitor stooped over him and deliberately cut his bonds, he was astounded into silence.