Three more went down with steel through them, and then the rest surrendered, throwing down their arms, and begging mercy.  Brown made a bundle of their arms, stowed it in a corner and made the prisoners stand together in a bunch, while he searched them thoroughly.

“If we can’t get that trapdoor open now, with these to help us,” he remarked, panting and wiping the dotted blood off his sword on a Hindu prisoner’s trousers, “it’ll be a heavier proposition than I think!”

“There’s a trick to it,” said Juggut Khan, panting too, for the battle had been fierce and furious while it lasted.  “The fakir knows the trick.  It is heavy, in any case.  But, if we make him tell us, we can manage it.”

There followed delay while the fakir was induced to forego the pleasure of a sulking fit.  He seemed like a child, anxious to emphasize their dependence on his knowledge, and needing to be recompelled to each new thing they needed of him.  He was perfectly content, though, to surrender when he felt the weight of a cleaning-rod on his anatomy, or something in the way of fire—­a match or cigarette for instance—­ placed where he would get the most sensation from it.

Then followed more delay, while they rigged a lever of sorts, and a rope through an iron ring in the trap, and while Juggut Khan hunted for the secret catch that the fakir swore was hidden underneath a smaller stone that hinged in the middle of the floor.  He found it at last, moved it and came across to lend a hand with the lever and the rope.

The fakir sat still and smiled at them.  His eyes gleamed more horridly than ever, and his withered arm seemed more than ever to be calling down dire vengeance on them.

“I believe that monster is up to tricks of some kind!” swore Brown.

“He can’t do anything,” said Juggut Khan.  “If we were all to put our weight against this, all together, we and the prisoners, sahib, we could get it open in a second.”

“All together, then!” said Brown.  “Come on, there!  Lend a hand!”

The prisoners and Brown’s men and Juggut Khan and the Beluchi bent their backs above the lever, or hauled taut on the rope, and the fakir wriggled with some secret joke.

“At the word three!” said Brown.  “Then all together!”

“One!”

“Two!”

The fakir writhed delightedly.  He seemed more than ever like a wickedly malicious child.

“Three!”

They strained their utmost, and the huge stone trap gave way with a sudden jerk.

“For the love of—­”

They all jumped, but they were strained in the wrong position for a quick recovery, and the ten-ton rock rolled back on unseen hinges to crush them all, and rolled back and yet farther back—­and then stayed!  Brown had snatched a rifle, and had placed it between the rolling rock and the wall!

He stood wiping the sweat from his forehead, while the rest recovered their lost balance and walked out from behind unscathed.  The rifle creaked and bent and split.  Then the stone leaned farther back, reached the wall and stayed there!