Chapter XXVIII: "i DID Not Say That, Sahib!"

George Harkins was dead.

Blue eyed Jennie, in far away England, standing in the door of the vine clad cottage and shading her vision with her hand, would look longingly toward the stormy Atlantic, in the hope of seeing that form which when it went away carried her own true heart with it; but never should she see it again. Like the countless multitudes in this sad and sorrowing world, he had gone merrily forth to return nevermore.

Dr. Avery, with the laugh on his lips, shook the massive shoulder, when the body pitched forward upon the face, limp and nerveless. Then his heart stood still with horror and he shuddered to his very soul.

Tenderly raising the head again he found that the pulse had done beating, though the body was still warm.

So brief was the time between the noise which was heard by the party within and the hurrying out of Dr. Avery that Harkins could have been dead only a few minutes. The friend, shocked beyond expression, was bending over the dead body, when the crack of a pistol broke the stillness, followed by a tumbling and tearing of the shrubbery overhead, and then another body slumped down through the vegetation end over end, and struck the floor of the passage way, sprawling in front of the horrified surgeon, who recoiled with a gasp.

"Heaven save me! That is Luchman!"

"No, sahib; here is Luchman!"

The words were spoken by the guide, who dropped as lightly as a feather from the same support whence fell the dead man.

"O Luchman! Poor Harkins is killed!"

"I thought so, sahib," was the quiet response of the native, who, deeply as he felt the loss, repressed all emotion.

"Who killed him?"

"He," was the reply of Luchman, who kicked the form of his countryman with spiteful venom; "but he will do no more murders. Wana Affghar sent him after me, and the fool knew no better than to kill the Feringhee."

"How was it done?"

"He slipped behind him, when he was walking this way, and thrust his long, thin knife, that is as sharp as a needle, into his heart. He sank down on the floor, killed before he knew what wounded him. Then he set him up with his head leaning against the wall, as though he was asleep. The Ghoojur hurried out to tell Wana Affghar what he had done and that the way was open to the temple, where the rest of the Feringhees were sleeping, but he forgot, sahib, or he never knew that I was on the outside, watching for him and others, though I did not see him when he stole into the archway. I must have been at the rear at the time, but I met him when he was climbing up the stones. I gave him just enough time to know who it was that sent a bullet through his brain, and that was all."

It was a sad consolation to know that the fierce assassin had met his fate before he could get out of sight of the body of his victim, who was worth a legion of such wretches, but he was gone beyond recall.

When Dr. Avery had rallied from the shock, he made a professional examination of his friend's body to find what it was that caused his death.

It proved to be as Luchman had said: the native had evidently slipped up behind Harkins, without noise, at the moment when he was walking away from him, and had slain him so quickly that he had to leap aside to escape the falling body.

"What shall be done?" asked Avery; "can we give him burial?"

"No, sahib, except only what the temple will give: Wana Affghar must know nothing of this, lest it encourage him to rush upon us."

"He would do so, if he knew that half our defensive force is gone."

"But he must know, sahib, about his murderer."

Luchman deliberately picked up the body of his fallen foe, slung it over his shoulder, strode several rods out upon the plain, until the report of a gun warned him that he was venturing too far, when he stopped, and threw the load to the ground. Disdaining to hurry, he strode back with the exclamation:

"There! that will teach Wana Affghar a lesson."

The thought seemed to give the native satisfaction, but the sorrow of Avery drove everything else from his mind. His profession tends to make one indifferent, perhaps, to suffering and death, but when affliction strikes home, the physician suffers as poignantly as the rest of us.

Circumstances would not allow him to mourn the noble fellow as he wished. As a duty to him, he searched the person and took charge of the effects. There were data and memoranda that would give him what knowledge he needed, provided the party ever escaped from the perils that environed them. Within the shooting jacket, close to the heart that had been so cruelly pierced, was a small picture. Avery struck a match so as to see it more plainly. It was that of a fair, sweet face, with an abundance of nut brown tresses and eyes as blue as the heavens.

"Poor Jennie," murmured the surgeon, with dimmed vision, "there is One who has promised to wipe away the tears from all eyes, and He is the only friend who can comfort you now."

The weapons of the dead man were added for the present to the armament of Avery. It was then decided to leave the body where it lay until morning, when it would be impossible to keep the sad truth from the others. Then it would be carried into the smaller room, and left to await the summons at the resurrection morn. Perhaps no more fitting sepulture could be given it.

"Now," said the doctor, when nothing more remained to be done, "we must face the future; you have been outside; what did you learn?"

"Nothing, sahib," was the reply.

"Is it possible for us to get away?"

"I know of no way, sahib."

"Did you learn anything about the Ghoojurs?"

"Yes, sahib; I found that there is but one path by which they can come into the temple."

"What is that?"

"The one by which we entered; so long as we can guard that, sahib, we are safe."

"But we cannot do that forever, nor for a long time: how many days can we keep them at bay?"

"I hoped, sahib, that we should find a chance to do so tonight, but there is none; there may be tomorrow night."

"Why?"

"The moon rises later--an hour before midnight."

"That then is your only hope?"

"Yes, sahib."

"God pity us then, for that is no hope at all; this kind of weather will last for weeks."

"I will now sleep, sahib, if you will watch."

"I am glad to hear you say so; go back in the room and slumber all you want."

"No, sahib; I will lie here," replied Luchman, who stretched himself upon the hard couch, close to the inanimate form that was growing cold and stiff. Five minutes later, he was unconscious.

"And now I must take the place of poor Harkins," thought Avery, beginning to pace back and forth on his beat. "As likely as not some assassin will try the same game on me. I won't carry the rifle, but will hold my pistol ready."

A more trying situation cannot be conceived, and Avery would not have paced the floor in this manner, but for a morbid horror that if he sat down he would fall asleep and imperil the safety of the rest.

The action of Luchman in throwing himself on the floor, thus placing his life, as may be said, in the keeping of his friend, intensified the anxiety of the latter to guard against surprise.

Back and forth, therefore, he paced with the slow, steady step which can be kept up for hours without fatigue, but with Avery it lasted only a short time.

The strain upon his nerves became intolerable. When he turned at the mouth of the entrance and moved toward the interior, he was sure he heard stealthy footsteps behind him. He wheeled and leveled his pistol.

"Ah, ha, assassin, I've got you!"

But no one was there. Luchman was breathing heavily where he lay upon the floor, and the form that was once the magnificent George Harkins was straight and cold and still.

Then Avery stood a minute and listened. The vegetation was as motionless as the dark ruins, for there was not a breath of air stirring. The night was warmer and more sultry than any they had experienced since their flight from Delhi, but the temple probably offered the nearest approach to coolness that could be found anywhere.

Surely nothing was stirring near him, but peering through the arched way, he saw something move. He stepped lightly forward to learn the cause.

Two Ghoojurs were bearing off the body of their comrade that had been laid low by the pistol of Luchman.

"Take the carcass and be gone," muttered the sentinel; "and would to God you had carried him away before he entered this place to slay one of the best men of earth."

The reasonable conclusion was that Wana Affghar, having failed in his attempt, would not soon essay any thing of the kind again. Thus thought Avery, who continued his walk in comparative peace; but he was in that highly nervous condition in which it is impossible to feel sure of a correct judgment on any question. So it came about that he decided that the grounds for not looking for a repetition of the attempt constituted the best grounds for expecting it, and thus his spasmodic vigilance was resumed.

Though he was repeatedly sure that he saw and heard his enemies prowling around him, there really was nothing of the kind.

It was past midnight, when Luchman leaped to his feet as though stung by a serpent.

"What's the matter?" asked Avery, who was startled by the slightest cause.

"Nothing, sahib; why do you ask?"

"Is that the way you always wake up?"

"Not always: have you seen anything new?"

"I am not sure. I saw a couple of Ghoojurs bear away that body, and I thought I detected others moving around the outside, but maybe I was mistaken."

"You were, sahib, for if any of them had come nigh, you could not have been mistaken."

"Are you through with your nap?"

"Yes, sahib; I will take no more till this is ended."

Avery looked sharply at him.

"You speak as though you thought we might escape."

"I did not say that, sahib."

Luchman explained that he meant that before he would require any more slumber, the question would be settled one way or the other. When the time should come for the guide to sleep again the fugitives would either be dead or safe.

Luchman urged Avery to go inside and try to rest, but he was too much distressed to accept the suggestion. He preferred to remain on guard, and he did so.