the light about. "See? There is nothing here!"
Kundoo looked with wide eyes at the bare, freshly whitewashed wall.
"Gampati! [God preserve us]" Mahbub went on. "You must be drunk! A Mussulman! Chapper-band! [Robber] Boh! [Bandit] It must be the eyes of one whom you have killed and who was not avenged that you see. Be quiet now, or must I beat thee with a stick?" he added as he picked up the light and retreated down the corridor.
Partly reassured by that scrutiny under the glaring light, Kundoo lay on his bed and pondered over this absurd idea. Absurd! Was it? Could it have been the eyes of that one Involuntarily he glanced out past the grating. His body stiffened, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth in his terror. The eyes were glaring at him once more.
The long night dragged endlessly
through its age long length. Whenever
he looked, Kundoo could see that
cold unwinking glare fixed upon him.
He fancied he could even make out the
menacing form of his last victim in the
velvety darkness. His terrorized shrieks
brought him only beatings from the tall
Mahbub; the light reappearing time and
again showed the corridor bare of every
living thing. In vain Kundoo begged
that the light be left with him. To all
his pleadings and entreaties Mahbub
turned a deaf ear.
As the hot morning flamed, a cowering, shaking wretch begged piteously for Trowbridge sahib. Mahbub reviled him and spat contemptuously upon him:
"What can such a louse as you want of the gorra-log [white man]?" he demanded. "Trowbridge sahib sleeps. No djinns disturb his rest. The dead do not glare at him all the night because their deaths are unavenged. In this cell you must stay day after day until the wakils [lawyers] shall argue before the Raj."
At the prospect of endless nights with that nameless terror Kundoo grovelled upon the floor. Piteously he begged to be taken away—anywhere at all! He threw himself at Mahbub's feet. The dapper Afghan's face was hard as flint.
"You did not fear Yar Khan when he lived. Why do you fear him now when only his eyes seek you out in the darkness, calling ever for justice? So shall his eyes follow you ever while life exists in your miserable carcass. Thou crow! Jackal! Dung-beetle! Pathan!"
He stalked majestically toward the door.
The wretched Kundoo shrieked the louder.
"Only for one thing will I call the Kumar Bahadur [Son of a King]," Mahbub said as he opened the door. "If you wish to tell the sahib how and why you killed Yar Khan I shall ask him if he will see you and try to stop that uneasy dead one from troubling you until the Raj takes your worthless life."
Eagerly the wretched Kundoo begged that Trowbridge sahib be sent for.
The noonday sun stood high overhead.
Commissioner Trowbridge had given orders to have the shaking, nerveless wretch removed to another cell and closely guarded, had promised him a light burning ever during the long night hours. Kundoo's full confession, properly attested and signed, was in his hands; he tapped the folded sheets thoughtfully against his opened hand. He looked curiously about the bare little cell. Mahbub held the grating door open for him to leave.
"It is done, Trowbridge sahib, oh my brother," he said softly.
"It is done, indeed, Mahbub; though how it was done, I know not. Perhaps the Gods of Hind—perhaps the Holy
