“We will stay here four days; by the third day there will be time enough to have brought an elephant and—­”

“I will go on foot,” said Cunningham, quite quietly.  “Tomorrow, at dawn, risaldar-sahib.  Will you be good enough to make arrangements?  All we need to know is where he is and how to get there—­will you attend to that?”

“Ha, sahib.”

“Thanks.  I wonder if my supper’s ready.”

He turned and walked away, with a little salute-like movement of his hand that was reminiscent of his father.  The two Rajputs watched him in heavy-breathing silence until the little group of lights, where the horse-tents faced the old dak-bungalow, swallowed him.  Then: 

“He is good.  He will do!” said the black-beard who had brought the lamp.

“He is good.  But many sahibs would have acted coolly, thus.  There must be a greater test.  There must be no doubt—­no littlest doubt.  Alwa and the others will ask me on my honor, and I will answer on my honor, yes or no.”

It was an hour before the two of them returned, and looked the horses over and strolled up to bid Cunningham good night; and in the meanwhile they had seen about the morrow’s tiger, and another matter.

CHAPTER VII

What found ye, then?  Why heated ye the pot? 
What useful metal down the channels ran? 
Gold?  Steel for making weapons?  Iron?  What? 
Nay.  Out from the fire we kindled strode a man!

They set the legs of Cunningham’s string-woven bed into pans of water, to keep the scorpions and ants and snakes at bay, and then left him in pitch darkness to his own devices, with a parting admonition to keep his slippers on for the floor, in the dark, would be the prowling-place of venomed death.

It was he who set the lamp on the little table by his bedside, for his servant—­for the first time on that journey—­was not at hand to execute his thoughts almost before he had spoken them.  Mahommed Gunga had explained that the man was sick; and that seemed strange, for he had been well enough, and more than usually efficient, but an hour before.

But there were stranger things and far more irritating ones to interfere with the peaceful passage of the night.  There were sounds that were unaccountable; there was the memory of the wayside tombstone and the train of thought that it engendered.  Added to the hell-hot, baking stuffiness that radiated from the walls, there came the squeaking of a punka rope pulled out of time—­the piece of piping in the mud-brick wall through which the rope passed had become clogged and rusted, and the villager pressed into service had forgotten how to pull; he jerked at the cord between nods as the heat of the veranda and the unaccustomed night duty combined to make him sleepy.