“Dead men can not keep bargains!” answered Ranjoor Singh.  “I shall succeed or die.  But consider again:  I have led these men of mine hither from Stamboul, deceiving and routing and outdistancing Turkish regiments all the way.  Shall I fail now, having come so far?”

“Insha’ Allah!” said the Kurd, meaning, “If God wills.”

“Since when did God take sides against the brave?” Ranjoor Singh asked him, and the Kurd said nothing; but I feared greatly because they seemed on the verge of a religious argument, and those Kurds are fanatics.  If anything but gold had been in the balance against him, I believe that Kurd would have defied us, for, although he did not know what Sikhs might be, he knew us for no Musselmen.  I saw his eyes look inward, meditating treachery, not only to Wassmuss, but to us, too.  But Ranjoor Singh detected that quicker than I did.

“Let us neglect no points,” he said, and the Kurd brought his mind back with an effort from considering plans against us.  “It would be possible for me to get that gold, and for other Kurds—­not you or your men, of course, but other Kurds—­to waylay me in the mountains.  Therefore let part of the agreement be that you leave with me ten hostages, of whom two shall be your blood relations.”

The Kurd winced.  He was a little keen man, with, a thin face and prominent nose; not ill-looking, but extremely acquisitive, I should say.

“Wassmuss holds my brother hostage!” he answered grimly, as if he had just then thought of it.

“I have a German prisoner here,” said Ranjoor Singh, with the nearest approach to a smile that he had permitted himself yet, “and Wassmuss will be very glad to exchange him against your brother when the time comes.”

“Ah!” said the Kurd, and—­

“Ah!” said Ranjoor Singh.  He saw now which way the wind blew, and, like all born cavalry leaders, he pressed his advantage.

“Do the Turks hold any of your men prisoner?” he asked.

“Aye!” said the Kurd.  “They hold an uncle of mine, and my half-brother, and seven of my best men.  They keep them in jail in fetters.”

“I have five Turkish prisoners, all officers, one a bimbashi, whom I will give you when I hand over the gold.  The Turks will gladly trade your men against their officers,” Ranjoor Singh assured him.  “You shall have them and the German to make your trade with.”

It was plain the Kurd was more than half-convinced.  His men who swarmed around him were urging him in whispers.  Doubtless they knew he would keep most, if not all, of the gold for himself, but the safety of their friends made more direct appeal and I don’t think he would have dared neglect that opportunity for fear of losing their allegiance.  Nevertheless, he bargained to the end.

“Give me, then, ten hostages against my ten, and we are agreed!” he urged.

“Nay, nay!” said Ranjoor Singh.  “It is my task to fight for that gold.  Shall I weaken my force by ten men?  Nay, we are already few enough!  I will give you one—­to be exchanged against your ten at the time of giving up the gold in Persia.”