him before got ready now to stand at a distance and take sides against
him should the white man turn out to have understood.

But Cunningham happened to catch sight of a cloud of paroquets that
swept in a screaming ellipse for a better branch to nest in and added
the one touch of gorgeous color needed to make the whole scene utterly
unearthly and unlike anything he had ever dreamed of, or had seen in
pictures, or had had described to him. He stood at gaze--forgetful
of the stone that had attracted him and of the fakir--spellbound by
the wonder-blend of hues branch-backed, and framed in gloom as the
birds' scream was framed in silence.

And, seeing him at gaze, the fakir recovered confidence and jeered new
ribaldry, until some one suddenly shot out from behind Cunningham, and
before he had recovered from his surprise he saw the fakir sprawling on
his back, howling for mercy, while Mahommed Gunga beat the blood out of
him with a whalebone riding-whip.

The sun went down with Indian suddenness and shut off the scene of
upraised lash and squirming, naked, ash-smeared devil, as a
magic-lantern picture; disappears. Only the creature's screams
reverberated through the jungle, like a belated echo to the restless
paroquets.

"He will sleep less easily for a week or two!" hazarded Mahommed Gunga,
stepping back toward Cunningham. In the sudden darkness the white
breeches showed and the whites of his eyes, but little else; his voice
growled like a rumble from the underworld.

"Why did you do it, risaldar? What did he say?"