Then suddenly the place seemed to change. The sleeping glen
changed to a black sword-cut among rocks, his friends disappeared, and
only George was left. He remembered that George cried out something and
pointed to the gorge, and he knew--though how he knew it he could not
tell--that the lost Alice was somewhere there before him in the darkness
and he must go towards her. Then he had wakened shivering, for in that
darkness there was terror as well as joy.
He went to the door, only to find himself turned back by the sheep-skin
sentry, who half unsheathed for his benefit an ugly knife. He found
that his revolver, his sole weapon, had been taken while he slept.
Escape was impossible till his captors should return.
A day of burning sun had followed on the storm. Out of doors in the
scorching glare from the rock there seemed an extraordinary bustle. It
was like the preparations for a march, save that there seemed no method
in the activity. One man burnished a knife, a dozen were cleaning
rifles, and all wore the evil-smelling finery with which the hillman
decks his person for war. Their long oiled hair was tied in a sort of
rude knot, new and fuller turbans adorned the head, and on the feet were
stout slippers of Bokhara make. Lewis had keen eyesight, and he strove
to read the marks on the boxes of cartridges which stood in a corner.
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