Gil the Gunner, George Manville Fenn [fun books to read for adults txt] 📗

it is no fault of mine his coming.”

“Look here, Salaman,” I said; “if you call me ‘my lord’ again, instead of ‘sahib,’ I will send to his highness. There, get rid of the old fellow as soon as you can. We should have such a man put in prison in England. Come and give me some food, and let him curse his voice back again. I don’t wonder that the tiger wanted to kill him.”

Salaman shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you know why the fierce beast did not eat him?”

“Because he found out that he had made a mistake in striking down a holy man, my—”

“Ah!”

“Sahib,” cried Salaman, hurriedly.

“That’s better,” I said. “No! The tiger did not touch him afterwards, because he was so dirty.”

I walked away, hearing the fakir whispering wishes of evil against me to the attendants, and spitting on the ground from time to time, while Salaman followed me to my dinner under the tree, and brought me a cool, pleasant draught of lemon and water and some fresh fruit, leaving me afterwards to moralise on the difference between my religion and his, and afterwards to sit dejectedly waiting for my wound to heal, and to hope that the rajah would not come.

He did not come, and as I sat thinking, I was obliged to confess that I was too weak to make any attempt at escape for some time yet; and even when I grew stronger, the chances appeared to be very small.

“Never mind,” I said at last, trying to be cheerful. “Some chance may come yet.”

But my spirits did not rise, for there was always the black cloud which I could not pierce, behind which was hidden the fate of my friends, and all that were dear to me.

The next day I heard that the old fakir had not gone. His wounds were bad, and he had taken up his abode about a hundred yards away, amongst the roots of a large tree.

“Have you doctored his scratches?” I asked.

“No, my lor—sahib,” said Salaman; “he will not have them bathed, and he has torn off all the bandages, and he made me guide his finger along them.”

“Dirty finger?”

“Yes, sahib, it is a very dirty finger. At least it would be if it was mine; but his fingers are holy. They cannot be unclean, and he says that the touch will heal the wounds.”

“I hope it will,” I said; “but, I say, look here, Salaman, have you washed your hands since you touched him?”

“Oh yes, sahib, many times,” he cried eagerly.

I laughed heartily for the first time for long enough, and Salaman looked puzzled, and then smiled.

“I know why, my—sahib laughs,” he said. “These things are a puzzle. I cannot make them out.”

“Never mind; only don’t let the old fakir come near me.”

That day passed as the others had gone. Everything about me was beautiful, and I was treated like a prince, but the word “renegade” was always in my mind’s eye, and I went to my rest at last as despondent as ever, after another attempt to decipher the writing, but all in vain.

It was a very hot night, and for a long time I could not sleep; but at last I was dozing lightly, when I woke with a start to listen.

But all was still for a time. The lamp burned with its soft shaded light, and there was not a sign of anything startling, but, all the same, I had awakened suddenly, in a fright, and with an instinctive feeling that something was wrong.

All at once, from the back of the tent, there was a low, sharp hiss, and I felt that my enemies, the snakes, were about again, trying to get in, and I wondered at my folly in not insisting upon having some weapon at hand, though I knew it was doubtful whether I should have been so favoured.

I lay listening, and then rose up quickly, meaning to rush to the tent opening, and call for whoever was on the watch, when a soft voice whispered—“Hist, sahib!”

“Ah!” I ejaculated, with my heart beating as if I had been running.

“Hist! Friends near.”

I was on my way to the side of the tent whence the voice came, when I heard hurried steps, and had just time to throw myself back on my couch, as the tent door was thrown open and Salaman appeared.

“The sahib called,” he said.

I was nearly speechless with emotion, which I dared not show, and I knew that my duty was to keep the man there, and engage him in conversation so as to give my nocturnal visitor a chance of escape. Mastering myself as well as I could, I said in a fretful, angry way—

“Come here.”

He was at my side in an instant.

“Take off these bandages. They hurt my arm.”

“My lord, no. The doctor would be angry.”

“So shall I be, if you do not take them off,” I cried. “My arm is like fire.”

It was quite true, for the excitement at my sudden movement had started the wound stinging and aching.

“It might bleed horribly,” said Salaman, humbly. “Let me loosen the bandage, sahib.”

“Very well,” I replied sulkily, quite satisfied now that whoever had been outside the canvas had had plenty of opportunity to get away; and I lay patiently enough, while my attendant loosened and re-tied my bandages before leaving me once more to lie wondering whether I should have another visitation that night, and fervently hoping that whoever it was would take care not to be seen.

I lay awake for hours, but there was not another sound; and at last exhaustion had its way, and I slept till quite late, angry with myself for my drowsiness, and determined not to close my eyes that night.

In the course of the day I sought an opportunity to examine the tent in the direction from which the sound had come, and had there been any doubt in my mind as to whether I had dreamed I had heard a voice, it was now dispersed, for about the height of my shoulder there was a slit about an inch long just sufficient for any one to apply his lips to the opening and speak.

No rajah that day, which was, I think, the longest I ever spent. Toward afternoon I summoned Salaman.

“Look here,” I said. “I am sure the rajah does not wish me to be treated as a prisoner.”

“No, sahib.”

“Then give me my sword again.”

“Thy servant has it not,” replied Salaman.

“Then fetch me another.”

“His highness gave me no commands.”

“But I do,” I said simply. “Let me have one at once.”

“Thy servant grieves that he must disobey my lord,” said the man humbly. “He cannot do this thing.”

“Go!” I said angrily, though I knew the man was not to blame.

“My lord is angry with his servant,” he said humbly. “If he brought him a sword, he might cut his servant down, and try to escape; but it would be vain, for every part is strictly watched.”

I turned away in misery, for, with the place so firmly watched, how were my friends to reach me?

Toward evening, when it was cooler, I went for a stroll, but soon turned back, for the loathsome figure of the filthy old fakir rose from among some bushes with his hands raised, cursing me volubly, and I was glad to get back to my tent and lie down to have a good rest before night, ready to keep awake for the visitor who might come.

Salaman now came to say that my dinner was ready, and had been waiting two hours, but my appetite was very poor, and I got on badly. Still I ate, feeling that I needed all the strength I could get up, and at last my regular retiring hour came, and I lay down once more to listen to the trampling of my attendants and their low murmuring voices; then to the noises in the forest, and twice over I heard in the distance the low howl of a tiger.

But how slowly the time passed before all was silent in the camp, and I waited for the whispering voice at the canvas! The moment it came I meant to creep to the side silently, and then I could hear the news of the friends who were near, and what they proposed to do.

Can you imagine the misery and weariness of waiting hour after hour in the midst of this silence, broken only by the calls of the wild beasts and nightbirds, the slightest sound being turned into a footstep or voice? A hundred times over I must have thought that I heard Salaman or his men listening, and I grew hot with anxiety as I wondered whether they suspected anything.

Then I turned cold as ice and shivered, for a shriek rang out from somewhere among the trees, and immediately I pictured the messenger transfixed by the lance of one of the sowars on guard.

But I heard no further sound, and by degrees grew calmer, as I recalled hearing such a cry before, and knew that it was made by a night-bird.

There, stretched out on the cushions upon my back, gazing at the lamp, and with my ears all attent for the slightest sound—the right for danger, the left for my friends—thus I lay listening, till the lamp grew dim. The sounds of the forest were distant; and then I was at Brandscombe, busy with the notes of lectures, and in great trouble about something, but what I could not tell, only that the old professor of Sanscrit, with a long grey beard and much tangled hair, was leaning over me, his eyes wild and strange, his cheeks hollow, and a horrible look of fierce anger in his voice as he whispered hoarsely, evidently in disgust with my knowledge of the subject he taught. But what it was he whispered I could not tell, only that it chilled me and paralysed me when I wanted to struggle and get away from him. I tried hard, I knew, but it was all in vain, and an interminable time passed on, during which I lay helpless there, with the old professor whispering to me, and his face growing more and more terrible, till, to my terror, I saw that it was not the professor of Sanscrit, but the old fakir who had taken such a dislike to me; and, fully awake now, I found myself gazing up in his fierce eyes.

For the nightmare had passed off, and in the reality I was gazing up at my enemy, who had evidently stolen into my tent, knife-armed—for there it was, gleaming in his hand—to rid himself and his country of an enemy of his religion and his race.

And I could not move, even when I felt his left hand steal once into my breast, which hardly heaved, so utterly paralysed was I by my nightmare dream; ten times it seemed to me more terrible than the serpent I had found where the fakir’s hand now lay.