But again the fakir did not answer.

"Tell him that I'm going to let him save his face, provided he saves
mine. Explain that I, too, have men who think I am something more than
human!"

The Beluchi interpreted, and Brown thought that the fakir's eyes gleamed
with something rather more than their ordinary baleful light. It might
have been the dancing flames that lit them, but Brown thought he saw the
dawn of reason.

"Say that if I let my men kill him, my men will believe me superhuman,
and his men will know that he is only a man with a withered arm!
But tell him this: He's got the best chance he ever had to perform
a miracle, and have the whole of this province believe in him
forevermore."

Again the fakir's eyes took on a keener than usual glare, as he listened
to the Beluchi. He did not nod, though, and he made no other sign,
beyond the involuntary evidence of understanding that his eyes betrayed.

"His men can see that noose round his neck, tell him. And his men know
me, more or less, and British methods anyhow. They believe now, they're
sure, they're positive that his neck's got about as much chance of
escaping from that noose as a blind cow has of running from a tiger. Now
then! Tell him this. Let him come the heavy fakir all he likes. Tell
him to tell his gang that he's going to give an order. Let him tell them
that when he says 'Hookum hai!' my men'll loose his neck straight away,
and fall down flat. Only, first of all he's got to tell them that he
needs us for the present. Let him say that he's got an extra-special
awful death in store for us by and by, and that he's going to keep us
by him until he's ready to work the miracle. Meantime, nobody's to touch
us, or come near us, except to bring him and us food!"

The fakir listened, and said nothing. At a sign from Brown the rope
tightened just a little. The fakir raised his chin.

"And tell him that, if he doesn't do what I say, and exactly what I say,
and do it now, he's got just so long to live as it takes a man to choke
his soul out!"

The fakir answered nothing.

"Just ever such a wee bit tighter, men!"

The fakir lost his balance, and had to scramble to his feet and stand
there swaying on his heels, clutching at the rope above him with his one
uninjured hand, and sawing upward with his head for air. There came a
murmur from the shadows, and a dozen breech-bolts clicked. There seemed
no disposition to lie idle while the holiest thing in a temple