CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
"MOHAMMED ER RASOUL ALLAH?"
"Ping-ping!" The bullets sang around him--splattering the rocks withblue lead marks. Not for a moment did he think of stopping. They mightshoot him dead, but alive he would not yield. Besides there was onelast desperate chance, and he meant to try it.
The markhor cave! A final spurt would bring him to that. It was justround yon shoulder of cliff, which at present concealed it. Hispursuers would not even see him enter it, and there were smaller holesand crannies around which would puzzle them. Besides, he rememberedthere were superstitions attaching to it. These might possibly deterthem from entering at all. It was a straw, but a slender one.
One great and final effort. He penetrated its normally forbidding butnow welcome blackness, and sank down panting on the rock-floor. Forsome minutes he thus crouched, listening intently. He heard the rattleof stones outside; now and then the tones of a deep voice, or the clinkof rifle-barrel or scabbard against the rock. The search was proceedingright merrily, yet, why had it not begun here?
Some minutes went by. To the hunted man, crouching there, they meanthours. Then the sound of steps approaching. They were going to searchthe markhor cave. His last chance had failed.
The footsteps outside halted. Then he heard the voice of their ownercalling, and receiving answers from several other voices. He wascalling to his comrades to come and aid in the search. Superstition,evidently, disinclined him to prosecute it alone. It could not be thefugitive that he feared, seeing that the latter was unarmed, andprobably quite exhausted.
Then a wild and daring idea came into Campian's mind--in fact, soutterly desperate a plan that were he allowed time to think of it, thebare thought would suffice to send a cold shiver through his frame. Thechasm--into which he had so nearly stepped on the occasion of his firstand last visit to this place! The chasm--into whose black depths he andVivien had stood gazing, side by side. It was his last and only chance,but--what a chance!
His matchbox contained a few wax vestas. The pursuers, probably stillcollecting to explore the cave in force, had not begun to enter.Groping his way round a rock corner which would partially or entirelyshield the light from those without, he struck a vesta, deadening, sofar as he was able, the sound with his hollowed hands. It flamedforth--a mere flicker in the cavernous gloom. But it was sufficient forhis purpose.
There lay the black rift, like the great serpent for which he had atfirst taken it. He was right at its brink. Then flinging into it thespent vesta, he grasped the edge and let himself carefully down, hangingby the grasp of his two hands alone on the lip of the fissure, in thepitchy darkness over that awful unfathomable depth which seemed to godown into the very heart of the earth.
The tension was fearful. He must let go. Every muscle was strained andcracking. And now a glow of light told that his enemies were enteringwith torches. Ha! he had overlooked that contingency. The light wouldreveal his strained fingers grasping the rock. One cut of a tulwar--and--
Then his feet came in contact with something--something that clinkedfaintly as with the sound of metal. Groping carefully with both feet,lo! they closed on what felt like an iron chain.
Heavens! it was a chain--a massive iron chain depending in some way fromthe rock above. In the increasing glow of the torches he could make outthat. Here was a Heaven-sent chance. Grasping the great links firmlywith knees and feet, he let go, first with one hand, then the other, andseized the chain. It, with its rough links, afforded a safe and solidresting place for a time.
The pursuers had now arrived right at the brink. Their bizarre,turbaned shadows on the opposite rock wall looked gnome-like in thesmoky glare of the torches. But in the said glare he recognised, with arush of hope, that unless they peered right over they could not see him,for the chain hung from an iron bolt let into the rock, which hereprojected just above his head.
The weird shadows on the rock danced and tossed, the guttering lightgrotesquely exaggerating every movement. He who hung there could hearthe deep-toned voices right over him. The chain to which he clungswayed and shivered with the concussion of the tramp of many feet above.They held out a torch or two over the abyss, and dropped a few pebblesdown--even as he himself had done when with Bhallu Khan. He could heartheir exclamations as the stones struck far below with a faint thud.Could he have understood them, his relief would have been greater still.Among them, however, he thought to recognise the harsh, snarling voiceof Umar Khan.
"If the dog has gone down here," that worthy was saying, "why, then, heis already suffering the torments of hell. If he entered this place atall, how should he not have fallen in, seeing that it is darker thannight within the cave, and this hole is a pitfall to the unwary, and avery entrance to the abode of devils?"
"In here he entered without doubt," said Ihalil Mohammed, "for everyother hole have we searched thoroughly."
To this the others assented. Their prisoner had undoubtedly given themthe slip. Dead or alive he would never be seen again.
All this the hunted man, thus hanging there, could not understand.Would they never give up the search, he was wondering. Well for himthat he was in hard form and training--yet he was not so young as heused to be, he recognised bitterly, as every joint and muscle ached withthe convulsive tension involved in thus supporting his own weight, foran apparently unlimited period, entirely by compression. Well for him,too, that the links were rough with red, flaky rust, thus affordingincreased facility of hold. Yet would these hell hounds never give upthe search?
They were forced to at last. The red glow of the torches grew fainter,then died out--so, too, did the sound of footsteps and voices. Campianwas in pitch darkness, suspended over this awful and unknown depth.
Now that the more active peril was withdrawn, and his attention thusdrawn inwards, he was able to think, to realise the full horror of hisposition. How was he to return? Cramped, aching, exhausted, he felt asthough he could hardly hold on, let alone work his way upward. Hisblood ran cold too as he realised what would have been his fate but forthis solid and substantial means of support right to his hand. Half ayard further on either side, and--No, it would not bear thinking of, andno sooner had he arrived at this conclusion than one foot, unconsciouslylowered, came in contact with something.
Something hard, wide, horizontal it was, for as he cautiously increasedthe pressure he felt it sway and tilt slightly. Then, with equalcaution, he lowered the other foot on the other side of the chain. It,too, met with like support. Carefully, with both feet, he increased thepressure so as to test the weight, still preserving his hand-hold.Nothing gave way, and his heart leaped within him as he found he hadsecured a firm resting place whereon to recruit his strength against hisreturn climb.
And now, safe for the time being, his thoughts were busy withspeculation as to this structure hung here in the black depths of thegulf. A great massive iron chain supporting a convenient swingingplatform, had not found its way there expressly to afford him a securerefuge in the hour of peril, that much was certain. Then his nervesthrilled and tingled as the conjecture uttered by Vivien in this veryplace came back to his mind: "_What if the things are at the bottom ofthat cleft_?" Heavens! Had this structure to do with the hiddentreasure--the priceless ruby sword?
Instinctively he sought his matchbox. No. That would be madness. Hispursuers might not even have left the entrance of the cave. Not forhours would it be safe to strike a light.
And for hours, indeed, he hung there and waited. He groped around theplatform, first with one foot then with the other, and it dawned uponhim that the structure was no ordinary board, or it would have tilted.It was a solid block of wood--no--a box.
A box? A chest! That was it. What if it held the treasure itself?And then by a strange fatality the conviction that this would prove tobe the case took firm hold of his mind--and if so, by what a terriblesequence of tragic events had he been constituted its finder. Would notthe recent drea
d experiences be worth going through to have led up tothis splendid discovery? All would yet be well. The best of life wasbefore him yet Vivien's last look, as he descended from their place ofrefuge to purchase her safety by delivering himself into the hands oftheir enemies, burned warm within his soul. When he returned safe, asone who returned from the dead, what would not her welcome be? Surelythe glow of the old days would be as nothing to this.
These and other such thoughts coursed through his mind as he hung therein the pitchy blackness--and indeed it was well for him that such wasthe case. Nothing is more utterly unnerving than any space of timespent in an absolutely silent and rayless gloom, but when, in additionto that, the subject is swung on a hanging platform, whose verystability he can vouch for with no degree of certitude, over a chasm ofunknown depth, and that for hours, why, he needs a mental stimulus of apretty strong and exalted type.
Judging it safe at last to do so, Campian struck a light. Feeble enoughit seemed in the vast gloom, and not until it had burned out were hiseyes capable of seeing anything after being for hours in black darkness.Then, stooping as low as he dared, he lit another. Yes. It was evenas he had conjectured. The platform he was standing on was a box orchest.
It was of very old and hard grained wood, almost black, and clampedtogether with solid brass bindings. It showed no sign of havingsuffered from the ravages of time, and the upper part, which was all hecould see, was covered with Arabic characters, curiously inlaid--probably texts from the Koran. He had no doubt but this was what hadoccupied so much of his thoughts, the hidden and forgotten treasurechest of the fugitive Durani chief, Dost Hussain Khan. Little is it tobe wondered at if even there he felt thrilled with exultation as heremembered what priceless valuables it certainly contained.
But that thrill of exultation sustained a rude shock--in fact died away.For happening to glance up while lighting another match it came home tohim that whether the chest contained valuables or not, the probabilitythat he would ever be in a position to put that contingency to the testwas exceedingly slender; for to gain the brink of the chasm, and theouter air again, looked from there an absolute impossibility. Thechain, and that which it supported, depended from a solid bolt let intothe rock, but the latter overhung it in a cornice or lip, whichprojected nearly half a yard. He would never be able to worm himselfover this. And then it came home to him that he was beginning to feelquite faint with hunger, and that his strength was leaving him fast.
Well, the feat must be attempted. Lighting another match--and he hadfew left now--he sent a long steady look at the projection, thefastening of the chain, and the distance from the edge. Then he beganhis climb.
This was not great. The rock lip projected only about half a yard abovehis hands at their highest tension. He drew himself up. He was underthe projection--groping outward along it in the darkness. Now hegripped it firmly with both hands--still clinging to the chain with feetand legs. He was about to swing himself off. One hand half-slippedaway. No, he could not do it. His strength failed him, likewise hisnerve. He was barely able to seize the chain again and let himself downto the vantage ground of the box, where he stood literally trembling.
This would not do at all. He must rest for a few moments and recruithis strength, must quell this shaky fit by sheer force of will. Itcould not be--he argued with himself--that he had come through all this,had made this royal discovery, by a chain of coincidences signal andtragic, only to fail at the last; to be swept into nothingness; todisappear from all human sight as completely as though dead and buriedalready. He was a bit of a fatalist, too, and this partially supportedhim now. If he was to come through safely, why he would--if not--! Andwith this thought, as by an inspiration, came another idea.
He could never raise himself above the rock projection from which thechain hung--that much was certain. But--the point whence he had lethimself down was only a foot to the right. There the edge did notoverlap.
Steadying his over-wrought nerves, he drew himself up once more.Holding on tightly he reached forth one hand. It grasped the brink.Carefully he felt along the hard rock. Yes--that would do. Now for it.He put forth the other hand.
And now the moment was crucial. One arm was already along the floorabove the edge. Campian's fate hung in the balance there in the pitchygloom. Beneath him all black darkness, death, horror, annihilation.The merest feather weight either way would turn the scale. He let go ofthe chain with his feet. A last and mighty effort, and--he was lyingsafe and sound on the rock-floor above; well nigh unconscious withexhaustion and the awful strain his nerves had undergone.
For long he lay thus. Then the cravings of hunger became more than hecould bear. Physical nature reasserted itself. He must obtain food atall risks. The forest bungalow was not far from that place. There hewould find it.
It must have been hours since he took refuge here. His enemies hadsurprised him just at daybreak; now it was high noon. Prudencecounselled that he should wait until night--physical craving argued thatby then he would hardly have strength left him to make his way anywhere;and the physical argument prevailed, as it ordinarily does.
He stepped forth quickly and gained the shelter of the juniper forest.The glare of the sun blinded him, and the sparse foliage afforded butpoor shade. He staggered along exhausted, yet full of renewed hope andresolution.
But for the mental and bodily exhaustion which half dulled hisfaculties, he would have become aware of a peculiar nasal, droning sounda short distance in front of him. As it was he hardly heard it, or ifso, missed its significance. When, however, he became alive to thelatter it was too late.
In a small open space, overhung on the further side by rocks, a score ofturbaned figures were kneeling. They were in two rows, and, barefooted,were prostrating themselves in the approved method of the faithful atprayer. Then, rising, repeated, with one voice, their orisons, whichwere led by a single figure a little in advance of the rest. It was toolate. With the first footfall of the intruder, round came severalshaggy faces. The effect was magical. The entire band of ferviddevotees sprang to its feet as one man. Tulwars whirled from theirscabbards, and, in a moment, the intruder was surrounded. Well mightthe latter now despair. Well might he realise that the bitterness ofdeath was indeed past. All that he had gone through was as nothing. Hehad walked, with his eyes open, right into the midst of his enemies, hadplaced, of his own act, his life in their hands. Foremost among thethreatening, scowling countenances was the repulsive, exultant one ofUmar Khan.
"Ah! ah!" snarled this implacable savage, with a grin of exultation."Lo, the sheep returns to the slaughter, for so wills it God."
"Allah?" repeated the destined victim, catching the last word."Hearken, Moslem, in hearken!" he called out in Hindustani, eyeing withunconcern the uplifted sword of his arch enemy. Then, standing there intheir midst, and facing in the direction they had been facing while atprayer, he extended both hands heavenward, and uttered in a loud, firmvoice:
"_La illah il Allah, Mohammed er rasoul Allah_!"
A gasp of wonder went up from those who beheld. As by magic everyweapon was lowered. Campian had professed the faith of Islam.
For some moments these fanatical brigands stared stupidly at each other,then at the figure of the sometime infidel, but now believer. The spellwas broken by their leader.
"It is well!" he said, advancing upon Campian, and again raising histulwar. "There is rejoicing in Paradise now, for in a moment it will bethe richer for a newly gained soul."
But before the weapon could descend, an interruption occurred. A littlebowed, bent figure came hurrying into the group. Campian recognised thesometime leader of the devotions.
"Hold now, my children," he cried, in tones quavering with age andexcitement, as he interposed his staff and rosary between the weapon ofUmar Khan and its intended victim. "Have ye not grievously offendedGod? Have ye not broken into his hour of prayer, with brawling andstrife? Would you further damn your own souls by
shedding the blood ofa true believer within this holy _ziarat_ [a local shrine orsanctuary]--for I myself have heard the profession of this Feringhi?Have no fear, my son--have no fear," he added, turning to Campian, andplacing an aged, wrinkled claw upon one shoulder. "None shall do theehurt, thou, who art now one of the faithful--for if any harm thee,"shaking his staff menacingly, "let him shrivel before the curse of theSyyed Ain Asraf."
The only words of this address intelligible to the now ransomed victim--though he understood the burden thereof--was the name--and at that hecould not repress a start of amazement. Those around beholding thiswere equally astonished.
"See," they said among themselves. "Even to the infidel has the fameand holiness of the Syyed Ain Asraf reached."
Even Umar Khan dare not openly resist the will of one so holy as theSyyed, and that as a matter of fact. But though baulked for thepresent, he turned sullenly away, meditating further mischief.