She had fainted, of course, in her
foolish, weak, womanly fashion. But where was Major Fletcher? The heat
was intense, so intense that breathing in that prone position seemed
impossible. Gasping, she raised herself. Surely she was not absolutely
alone in this arid wilderness!
She was not. In an instant she realised this, and wonder rather than
fear possessed her.
There, squatting on his haunches, not ten paces from her, was the old
snake-charmer. His basket was by his side; his _chuddah_ drooped low
over his face; he sat quite motionless, save for a certain palsied
quivering, which she had observed before. He looked as if he had been in
that place and attitude for many years.
Beryl leaned her head upon her hand and closed her eyes. She was feeling
spent and sick. He did not inspire her with horror, this old man. She
was conscious of a faint sensation of disgust, that was all.
A few seconds later she looked up again, wondering afresh whither her
escort could have betaken himself. It seemed to her that the distance
between herself and the old native had dwindled somewhat, but she did
not bestow much attention upon him. She merely noted how fiercely the
sun beat down upon his shrouded head, and wondered how he managed to
endure it.
The next time she opened her eyes, there were scarcely three yards
between them. The instant her look fell upon him he began to speak in a
thin, wiry voice of great humility.
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