“Better have hanged him long ago!” said I.  “He will be the ruin of us yet!” But he laughed.

“Sahib,” I said.  “Suppose he should get to see this Wassmuss?”

“I have thought of that,” he answered.  “Why should the Kurds let him go near Wassmuss?  Unless they return him safely to us we can execute their tages; they will run no risk of Wassmuss playing tricks with Gooja Singh.  Besides, from what I can learn and guess from what the Kurds say, this Wassmuss is to all intents and purposes a prisoner.  Another tribe of Kurds, pretending, to protect him, keep him very closely guarded.  The best he can do is to play off one tribe against another.  Our friend said Wassmuss holds his brother for hostage, but I think the fact is the other tribe holds him and Wassmuss gets the blame.  I suspect they held our friend’s brother as security for the gold he is to meet and escort back.  There is much politics working in these mountains.”

“Much politics and little hope for us!” said I, and at that he turned on me as he never had done yet.  No, sahib, I never saw him turn on any man, nor speak as savagely as he did to me then.  It was as if the floodgates of his weariness were down at last and I got a glimpse of what he suffered—­he who dared trust no one all these months and miles.

“Did I not say months ago,” he mocked, “that if I told you half my plan you would quail?  And that if I told the whole, you would pick it to pieces like hens round a scrap of meat?  Man without thought!  Can I not see the dangers?  Have I no eyes—­no ears?  Do I need a frog to croak to me of risks whichever way I turn?  Do I need men to hang back, or men to lend me courage?”

“Who hangs back?” said I.  “Nay, forward!  I will die beside you, sahib!”

“I seek life for you all, not death,” he answered, but he spoke so sadly that I think in that minute his hope and faith were at lowest ebb.

“Nevertheless,” I answered, “if need be, I will die beside you.  I will not hang back.  Order, and I obey!” But he looked at me as if he doubted.

“Boasting,” he said, “is the noise fools make to conceal from themselves their failings!”

What could I answer to that?  I sat down and considered the rebuff, while he went and made great preparation for an execution and a Turkish funeral.  So that there was little extra argument required to induce one of our Turkish officer prisoners—­the bimbashi himself, in fact—­to write the letter to Wassmuss that Ranjoor Singh required.  And that he gave to the Kurdish chief, and the Kurd rode away with his men, not looking once back at the hostages he had left with us, but making a great show of guarding Gooja Singh, who rode unarmed in the center of a group of horsemen.  That instant I began to feel sorry for Gooja Singh, and later, when we advanced through those blood-curdling mountains I was sorrier yet to think of him borne away alone amid savages whose tongue he could not speak.  The men all felt sorry for him too, but Ranjoor Singh gave them little time for talk about it, setting them at once to various tasks, not least of which was cleaning rifles for inspection.