“Opium!”

“Where is it?  Give it to us!” cried one of the brigands.

The chief thought quickly.  If his men would smoke they should suffer the penalty of being left at the well to await the arrival of the tender Bala Khan.  The white elephant was worth ten thousand rupees.  He might not be obliged to share these bags of silver.  His men could not complain.  They had discharged him.  Let them have the pipes.  He himself would only pretend to smoke.

But the first whiff of the fumes was too much for his will power.  He sucked in the smoke, down to the bottom of his very soul, and suddenly found peace.  The superdrug with which the poppy had been mixed was unknown to Ramabai, but he had often witnessed tests of its potency.  It worked with the rapidity of viper venom.  Within ten minutes after the first inhalation the nine brigands sank back upon the sand, as nearly dead as any man might care to be.

At once the elephant was liberated, and the party made off toward the town.  Colonel Hare, suspicious of everything these days, marveled over the simplicity of the trick and the smoothness with which it had been turned.  He began to have hope for the future.  Perhaps this time they were really going to escape from this land accursed.

There was great powwowing and salaaming at the gate as the sacred white elephant loomed into sight.  The old Brahmin who had charge of him wept for joy.  He was still a personage, respected, salaamed to, despite the preponderance of Mohammedans.  His sacred elephant!

Bala Khan was joyous.  Here was the sacred elephant once more in the compound, and not a piece out of his treasure chest.  He was in luck.  In the midst of his self-congratulations came the alarming news that a large body of men were seen approaching across the desert from the direction of Allaha.  Bala Khan, his chiefs and his guests climbed to the top of the wall and beheld the spectacle in truth.  It required but a single look through the binoculars to discover to whom this host belonged.

“Umballa!” said Ramabai,

“Ah!  Durga Ram, to pay his respects.”  Bala Khan rubbed his hands together.  It had been many moons since he had met a tulwar.

The colonel examined his revolver coldly.  The moment that Umballa came within range the colonel intended to shoot.  This matter was going to be settled definitely, here and now.  So long as Umballa lived, a dread menace hung above Kathlyn’s head.  So, then, Umballa must die.

Bala Khan was for beginning the warfare at once, but Bruce argued him out of this idea.  Let them first learn what Umballa intended to do.  There was no need of shedding blood needlessly.

“You white people must always talk,” grumbled the Khan, who was a fighting man, born of a race of fighters yet to bow the head to the yoke.  “It is better to kill and talk afterward.  I have given my word to protect you, and the word of Bala Khan is as sound as British gold.”