“Does he want me to hold him answerable for those men’s lives?”

“He says he cares not, sahib!  He says that he has promised what shall befall you, sahib, before a day is past—­you and one other!”

“Ask him, where is the Punjabi skin-buyer?”

The fakir chuckled at that question, and let out suddenly a long, low, hollow-sounding howl, like a she-wolf’s just at sundown.  He was answered by another howl from near the guardroom, and every soldier faced about as though a wasp had stung him.

“Front!” commanded Brown.  “Now, one of you, about turn!  Keep watch that way!  Is that the Punjabi?—­ask him.”

“He says ‘Yes!’ sahib.  He and others!”

“Very well.  Now tell him that unless he obeys my orders on the jump, word for word as I give them, I’ll hang him as high as Haman by that withered arm of his, and have him beaten on the toenails with a cleaning-rod before I fill him so full of bayonet-holes that the vultures’ll take him for a sponge!  Say I’m a man of my word, and don’t exaggerate.”

The Beluchi translated.

“He says you dare not, sahib!”

“Advise him to talk sense.”

“He says, sahib, `You have had one lesson!"’

“Now it’s my turn to give him one.  Men!  We’ll have to give up that sleep I talked about.  This limping dummy of a fakir thinks he’s got us frightened, and we’ve got to teach him different.  There’s some reason why we’re not being attacked as yet.  There’s something fishy going on, and this swab’s at the bottom of it!  We want him, too, on a charge of murder, or instigating murder, and the guardroom’s the best place for him.  To the guardroom with him.  He’ll do for a hostage anyhow.  And where he is, I’ve a notion that the control of this treachery won’t be far away!  Grab him below the arms and by the legs.  One of you hold a bayonet-point against his ribs.  The rest, face each way on guard.  Now—­all together, forward to the guardroom—­march!”

The fakir howled.  Ululating howls replied from the surrounding night, and once a red light showed for a second and disappeared in front of them.  Then the fakir howled again.

“Look, sahib!  See!  The guardroom!”

It was the Beluchi who saw it first—­the one who was most afraid of things in general and the least afraid of Sergeant Brown.  A little flame had started in the thatch.

“Halt!” ordered Brown.  “Two of you hold the fakir!  The remainder—­ volley-firing—­kneeling—­point-blank-range.  Ready—­as you were—­ independent firing—­ready!  Now, wait till you see ’em in the firelight, then blaze away all you like!”

His last words were cut off short by the sound of rifle-fire.  Each rifle in turn barked out, and three rifles answered from the night.

“Let that fakir feel a bayonet-point, somebody!”

The fakir cursed between his teeth, in proof of prompt obedience by one of the men who held him.