en many fakirs so
thin and dry that they hardly seemed to be alive, but they were, and
they went on living. I never saw a fakir die."

"Then you mean that he has gone away on his travels--pilgrimage, we call
it?"

"Yes, my lord, and he will not be here to curse you again."

"When--when did he go?" I asked, taking up my coffee, so as to seem
indifferent.

"Who knows, my lord? No one saw him leave. They come and they go, and
some of them are always coming and going. They have no home. Perhaps
he went in the night, perhaps as soon as it was day. And with all those
wounds not healed, it is wonderful."

I was already beginning to enjoy my breakfast at this glorious news, for
Dost had evidently got away in safety, and his disguise would no doubt
enable him to pass easily through the land.

"Well," I said, speaking cheerfully now, "what is your other news?"

"Ah, that coffee has done my lord good," said Salaman. "He smiles and
looks brighter and better for his highness to see. I made that coffee
myself, and it is fresh and good."

"Beautiful, Salaman," I said, emptying my cup, and longing for some good
honest English milk; "but your news--your other news."

"His highness is coming to-day."

"How do you know?" I cried, the aroma departing from my coffee, and the
chupatties beginning to taste bitter.

"A horseman rode over to bid me have refreshments ready for his highness
this afternoon, which he will partake of with you, and afterwards the
tents are to be taken down, bullock-waggons will come, and we shall
sleep at the palace to-night. But my lord does not seem glad."

"Glad?" I said bitterly. "Why, this means that I, too, am to go."

"Yes, my lord; thy servant said so, and it is right. The great doctor
spoke to me, and said that you wanted a change from here."

"Oh no," I cried.

"But the great doctor said so, my lord. He knows. My lord was nearly
dead when he was brought here, but the good medicine brought him back to
life, and now he is nearly strong. This place is good, and it was made
ready for my lord, but it is very lonely, and the wild beasts are always
about the tents at night."

Salaman said no more, but walked away. He had already said too much.

I was in agony, and could think no more, for it appeared as if my chance
had been thrown away. Only a few hours back, and Dost was talking to
me, there, where my meal was spread, and I, his master, had let him go,
instead of ordering