At her invitation he looked through the little square hole she
pointed out. And then, for the first time, he confessed surprise.
"Thou, Jagut Singh!" he exclaimed.
He stepped back, blinked to reassure himself, and stepped to the
hole again. Back to back, tied right hand to right, left hand to
left, so that their arms were crossed behind them, and lashed waist
to waist, a trooper of D Squadron and the Afridi whom lie had kicked
at Yasmini's sat on the floor facing opposite walls. Dumb misery was
stamped on the Sikh's face, the despair of evaporated savagery on the
Afridi's.
"Jagut Singh!" said the risaldar-major, louder this time; and the
trooper looked up, almost as if hope had been that instant born in him.
"Jagut Singh!"
The trooper grinned. A white row of ivory showed between his black
beard and mustache. He tried to look sidewise, but the rope that held
him tight to the Afridi hurt his neck.
"I knew it, sahib!" he shouted. "I knew that one would come for me!
This hill wildcat has fought until the ropes cut both of us; but take
time, sahib! I can wait. Attend to the duty first. Only let him who
comes bring water with him, for this is a thirsty place!"
Ranjoor Singh looked sidewise. He could see that Yasmini was
absorbed in contemplation of her prisoners. Her little lithe form was
pressed tightly against the wall, less than two yards away.
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