CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
THE DURANI RING.
When he awoke to consciousness Campian realised that he was lying on acharpoy, within a low, mud-plastered room.
His limbs were no longer bound, but his whole frame ached from head tofoot with a racking pain. With the first attempt to move he groaned,and once more closed his eyes. That last fearful ordeal had been toomuch for nerve and brain. Even now, as he awoke, the recollection of itcame back with a rush.
A slight rustling and the sound of a quiet footstep caused him to lookforth once more. A bearded, long-haired Baluchi was standing beside thebed with an earthen bowl in his hand.
"_Kaha Syyed Ain Asraf hai_?" queried Campian.
But the man only shook his head, set down the bowl, and departed.
He drank the contents, which consisted of slightly curdled goat's milk,and feeling vastly better, made up his mind to rise.
The turban he had before worn was lying beside him. Twisting it on, hesallied forth.
The sun was sky high, but the air was no longer the scorching breath ofthe desert. It was fresh, almost cool. As he looked around he couldsee the towering head of a mountain beyond the line of roof.
A sort of labyrinth of mud-walls confronted and puzzled him, but ofinhabitants he saw not a soul. Making his way carefully forward he cameupon an open space, but walled in all round; in fact, he seemed to be ina kind of walled village, and of the surrounding country nothing couldhe descry but the mountain overhead.
Several savage looking Baluchis stood or squatted in groups. Thesemuttered a sulky "salaam," but their faces were all strange to him; notone among them seemed to have been of the party amid which his lot hadformerly been cast. Women, too, here and there were visible--that is tosay, their clothing was, for their closely drawn chuddas, with the twocircular, barred eyeholes, conveyed to the spectator no sort of idea asto whether the face within was young or old, pretty or hideous, comelyor hag-like.
Again he inquired for the old Syyed, only to meet with the sameunconcerned headshake. The mention of Buktiar Khan met with no moresatisfactory result. This was bad. The cross-eyed ex-chuprassi,slippery scoundrel as he might be, was, at any rate, somebody to talkto, and, furthermore, a valuable mouthpiece. For the kind-hearted oldSyyed he had conceived a genuine regard, and it was with something likea real pang of regret that he missed the benevolent face and paternalmanner of that venerable saint. But, more important than all, he missedthe feeling of protection and security which the latter's presence hadinspired, and which, he realised with a qualm, he might only too soonneed; for a more forbidding, murderous looking set of ruffians than themen who inhabited this village he thought he had never in his lifebeheld.
Two of these, engaged in their devotions, on one side of the square,attracted his attention. Moved by a desire to propitiate, he went overto them, and putting off his shoes, spread his chudda beside them andbegan to do likewise. And now, for the first time--realising hisinsecurity, and missing the presence of his kind old preceptor--in hisstrait and loneliness, a kind of reality seemed to come into theformula; and bowing himself down towards Mecca, he felt that this creedwhich unified the hearts of millions and millions might even be orderedso as to form a link of brotherhood between himself and the fiercehearts of those surrounding him--and, let it come from whatever sourceit might, the inspiration was a sustaining one. He arose with renewedconfidence--even something of renewed hope.
Such, however, was not destined to last. As the days went by thedemeanour of those around grew more and more hostile--at times eventhreatening. They would hardly reply to his civil and brotherly"salaam," and would scowl evilly at him even during prayer. It began toget upon his nerves.
And well it might. In the first place he was a close prisoner, neverbeing suffered to go outside the loop-holed walls, and the want ofexercise told upon his health. Then, he had no idea as to where he was,or for what purpose he was being kept: that it was with the object ofransom he had more than begun to abandon hope, since the weeks haddragged into months, and yet no sign from the outside world. Intomonths--for there were signs of approaching winter now. The peak of theoverhanging mountain took on more than one cap of powdery snow, and theair, at nights, became piercingly cold. And then with the growinghostility of those around, he framed a theory that they were butawaiting the return of Umar Khan to put him to death, with such adjunctsof cruelty as that implacable barbarian might feel moved to devise.
Would his fate ever be known? Why should it? Orientals were as closeas death when they chose to keep anything a mystery. But what matteredwhether it were known or not? Vivien? She would soon forget--or findsome "duty" to console her, he told himself in all the bitternessfostered by his unnerved and strained state. No--but of her he wouldnot think; and this resolve, framed from the earliest stage of hiscaptivity, he had persistently observed. He needed all his strength,all his philosophy. To dwell upon thoughts of her--only regained inorder to be re-lost--had a perilous tendency to sap both.
All manner of wild ideas of escape would come to him, only to bedismissed. He had made one attempt, and failed. If that had beenunsuccessful--near home, so to say, and in country he knew--what sort ofsuccess would crown any such effort here in a wild and unknown region,which, for aught he knew, might be hundreds of miles from any Europeancentre? To fail again would render his condition infinitely worse, evenif it did not entail his death.
At last something occurred. It was just after the hour of morningprayer. A sound struck full upon his ears. Away over the desert itcame--the long cracking roll of a rifle volley. Then another, followedby a few scattered and dropping shots. Others had heard it, too, andwere peering through the loopholes in the outer wall. Faint and far itwas, but approaching--oh, yes, surely approaching.
Rescue? Surely this time it was. A clue to his whereabouts had beenfound, and the search expedition had discovered him at last. The bloodsurged hotly in his veins at the thought--but--with it came another.Would these barbarians allow him to leave their midst alive? Notlikely.
Then a plan formulated itself in his mind. He would retire to the roomhe occupied and barricade the door. That would allow his delivererstime to appear in force. So far, however, the people within the villagefort made no hostile movement towards him. They seemed to haveforgotten his presence, so engrossed were they in observing what mightbe going on outside. At last, however, the gates were thrown open toadmit three men on camels, supporting a fourth. Him they loweredcarefully to the ground, a fresh stream of blood welling forth from hiswounds as they did so, crimsoning his dirty white garments; and, in thegrim, drawn countenance, with its set teeth and glazing eyes, Campianrecognised the lineaments of Ihalil Mohammed.
The man was dying. Nothing but the tenacity of a son of the desert andthe mountain would have supported him thus far, with two Lee-Metfordbullets through his vitals. There he lay, however, the sands of lifeebbing fast, the very moments of his fierce, lawless, predatory careernumbered.
"You take care. Baluchi very cross," murmured a voice, in English, atCampian's side. No need had he to turn to recognise in it that ofBuktiar Khan.
The warning was needed--yet even then, fully alive to his peril, hecould not forbear hurriedly asking what had happened. As hurriedly theex-chuprassi told him; which he was able to do while loosening thesaddle girths of his camel, the attention of the others, too, beingoccupied with the dying man. A body of native horse led by two Englishofficers had come up to a neighbouring village, but the _malik_ whoruled it had refused to allow them the use of the wells. The cavalryhad persisted, and then the Baluchis had fired upon them. There hadbeen a fight, and then a parley, and the English officers had set off inpursuit of Umar Khan, who had been present until he saw how things weregoing with his countrymen.
"No. The sahibs not come here. Umar Khan go right the other way,"concluded Buktiar. "But--you take care--Baluchi very cross."
If ever there was point in a warning it
was at that moment. Several ofthose around Ihalil turned their heads and were eyeing the prisonerominously. The dying brigand, too, with hate in his glassy stare,seemed to be muttering curses and menace, then with a last effort, spatfull in his direction. It was as though a signal had been given.
Campian, however, was quick and resourceful in his strait. In a flash,as it were, he had whirled Buktiar's tulwar from its scabbard as theex-chuprassi was still leaning over his camel-gear, and with a rapid cuthad slashed the face of the foremost of the ferocious crew which nowhurled itself, howling, upon him. Then two or three quick boundsbackward and he was within his apartment, with the door banged to, andthe charpoy and a heavy chest which stood in the room so wedged againstit that it could not be forced by any method short of knocking out theopposite wall.
For a while the hubbub was appalling, as the infuriated Baluchis hurledthemselves against the door, bellowing forth terrific shouts and curses.The beleaguered man within stood there, his tulwar raised, pantingviolently with the excitement and exertion, prepared to sell his life atthe price of several, for a desperate man armed with a tulwar and drivento bay, is no joke--to the several. Then there was a sudden silence.Campian, with every faculty of hearing strained, was speculating whatnew device they would adopt to get at him. He had no hope now. It wasonly a question of time. Then Buktiar's voice made itself heard,calling out in English: "You come out I'sirdar--he want speak with you."
"Sirdar? What sirdar? Oh, skittles! You don't come it over me withthat thin yarn, Buktiar," replied Campian, with a reckless laugh,evolved from the sheer hopelessness of his position.
"No. I speak true. I'sirdar--he just come--I'sirdar Yar Hussain Khan."
"Umar Khan, you mean--eh?"
"No--not Umar Khan. Yar Hussain--big sirdar of Marri."
"How am I to know if this fellow is lying or not?" soliloquised Campianaloud. "See here, Buktiar. You're a damned fool if you don't do allyou can for me. You know I promised you a thousand rupees."
"I know, sahib. This time I speak true. You come out or I'sirdarp'r'aps get angry and go away."
Campian resolved to risk it. Therein lay a chance--otherwise there wasnone. Cautiously, yet concealing his caution, he flung open the door,and stepped boldly forth, his very intrepidity begotten of the extremityof his strait.
No. The ex-chuprassi had not lied. Standing there, his immediateretinue grouped behind him, was a tall, stately figure. Campianrecognised him at a glance. It was the Marri sirdar, Yar Hussain Khan.
Behind the group several horses were standing, the chief's spiritedmount, with its ornate saddle cloth and trappings, being led up and downthe square by one of the young Baluchis. Not a weapon was raised as thebeleaguered man stepped forth. The village people stood around, sullenand scowling.
"Salaam, Sirdar sahib!" said Campian advancing, having shifted thetulwar, with which he would not part, to the left hand. "Buktiar,remind the chief, that when we met before, at the jungle-wallah sahib'scamp, he said he would be glad to see me in his village, and--here Iam." And he extended his right hand.
But Yar Hussain did not respond with any cordiality to this advance,indeed at first it seemed as though he were going to repel italtogether. However, he returned the proffered handshake, thoughcoldly--and the sternness of his strong, dignified countenance in nowise relaxed as he uttered a frigid "salaam."
Then a magical change flashed across his features, and his eyes lit up.Throwing his head back, he stared at the astonished Campian.
"Put forth thy hand again, Feringhi," he said, in a quick, deep tone, asthough mastering some strong emotion. Wondering greatly--as the requestwas translated by Buktiar--Campian complied. And now he saw light.What had attracted the chief's attention was a ring he wore--a quaintEastern ring, in which was set a greenish stone covered with strangecharacters.
"Where obtainedst thou this?" inquired Yar Hussain, still in the deeptones of eager excitement, his eyes fixed upon the ring.
"From my father, to whom it was presented by an Afghan sirdar whose lifehe was the means of saving. It was supposed to bring good fortune toall who wore it. Have you ever seen a similar one, Sirdar sahib?"
But for answer there broke from several of those on either hand of thechief, and who, with heads bent forward, were gazing upon the circlet,hurried ejaculations.
"The Durani ring!" they exclaimed. "Yes, Allah is great. The Duraniring!"
They stared at the circlet, then at its wearer, then at the ring again,and broke forth into renewed exclamations. Yar Hussain the while seemedas though turned into stone. Finally, recovering himself he said:
"This is a matter that needs talking over. We will discuss it within."
At these words the _malik_ of the village fort, with much deference,marshalled the sirdar to his own house. With him went Campian and twoor three followers. Buktiar Khan, to his unmitigated disappointment,was left outside. When they were seated--this time comfortably oncushions, for this room was very different in its appointments to thebare, squalid one which had been allotted to the prisoner hitherto--oneof the Baluchis addressed Campian in excellent English, to the latter'sunbounded astonishment.
"The sirdar would like to hear the story of that ring," he said. "Youneed not fear to talk, sir. I am his half brother. I learnt English atLahore when I was Queen's soldier, so I tell the sirdar again all yousay."
Decidedly this was better than being dependent on an unreliable scampsuch as Buktiar Khan, and Campian felt quite relieved. For somehow herealised that his peril was over--probably his oft repeated trials andwearing captivity, but that might depend upon his own diplomacy, andwhat deft use he might make of the circumstance of the ring.
For a few moments he sat silent and pondering. The story of the ringwas so bound up with that of the ruby sword and the hidden treasure thatit was difficult to tell the one without revealing the other. Theinformation which he himself possessed declared that the only man whowould be likely to know anything about the matter was the Syyed AinAsraf. He, however, had not recognised the ring. Could there be twoSyyeds Ain Asraf?
Then he remembered that Yar Hussain was of Afghan descent. Did he knowanything of the hiding of the treasure, or at any rate where it washidden? The first was possible, the second hardly likely, or he wouldalmost certainly have removed it.
"What was the name of the Durani sirdar?" asked Yar Hussain at last."Dost Hussain Khan," replied Campian. "He is my father," said thechief, "and he rests on the rim of Paradise. There is truth in thystatement, O Feringhi, who--they tell me--art now a believer. He wassaved by a Feringhi, and an unbeliever, yet a brave and true man, andfor him and his we never cease to pray."
"Then are we brothers, Sirdar," said Campian, "for the man who saved thelife of thy father is my father."
The astonishment depicted on the faces of those who heard this statementwas indescribable.
"Ya Allah!" cried the chief, raising hands and eyes to heaven."Wonderful are Thy ways! Hast thou a token, Feringhi?"
"Is not that of the ring sufficient?" returned Campian, purposelysimulating offence. "If not, listen. The Sirdar Dost Hussain Khan,when pressed by his enemies, concealed his treasures, principal amongwhich was a ruby hilted sword of wellnigh priceless value. Thistreasure is lost. None know of its whereabouts to this day."
The chief's kinsman, whose name was Sohrab Khan, hardly able to mask hisown amazement, translated this. An emphatic assent went up from all whoheard.
"The treasure was enclosed in a strong chest of dark wood, three cubitsin length, covered with words from the blessed Koran, and clamped withheavy brass bindings," went on Campian. "The Durani sirdar was killedby the Brahuis. And now, why has the secret of its whereabouts beenlost? Does not the Syyed Ain Asraf know of it?"
The astonishment on the faces of those who heard found outlet in avehement negative.
Then Sohrab Khan explained. The Syyed, he said, knew nothing. All thatthe Feringhi, now a believer, had said
was true. But the Sirdar YarHussain Khan would fain repurchase the ring, because there was atradition in their house that its gift to an unbeliever--good and braveman as that unbeliever was--had caused the disappearance of thetreasure. When it was recovered the secret of the whereabouts of theruby sword and the other valuables would be revealed. Would fivethousand rupees repurchase it?
To this Campian returned no immediate answer. He was turning the matterover in his mind--not that of the sale and the proffered price, for onthat head his mind was clear. Of whatever value this lost propertymight be, these people, and they alone, had any claim to it. There wasa strange fatality about the way they had been enabled to save his life,and that at the most critical moments--first the Syyed Ain Asraf whenthe sword of Umar Khan was raised above his defenceless head--now thearrival of Yar Hussain and his following in time to rescue him from thesavage vengeance of the friends and kinsmen of Ihalil. His father hadforegone any claim upon the treasure, even when a share of it wasproffered him by the grateful potentate whose life he had saved; and nowhe, too, meant to make no claim. He had ample for his own needs--all heasked was restoration to liberty. Yet even for this he did notstipulate.
"Listen," he said at length, and during the time occupied by hismeditations it was characteristic that no word or sign of impatienceescaped those dignified Orientals, notwithstanding the grave import ofthe matter under discussion. "It seems that the tradition relating tothe recovery of the ring is one of truth. For if it was given to anunbeliever--albeit a brave and true man--now is it recovered by abeliever. See"--holding out his hand, so that all might see the greenstone and its cabalistic characters--"see--am I not one of yourselves?And now, O my brother, Yar Hussain Khan, I will restore unto thee thistreasure, even I; for it hath been revealed unto me. I have describedit and the chest which containeth it. Now, let us fare forth to thevalley called Kachin that thou mayest possess it once more."