"Go on pulling," he said in English, quite kindly.

But if he had loosed his rifle off, the effect could not have been more
instantaneous. Clutching his twisted rag of a turban in one hand, and
kicking his leg free, he ran for it--leaped the veranda rail, and
vanished--a night shadow, swallowed by its mother night.

"Come back!" called Cunningham. "Iderao! I won't hurt you!"

But there was no answer, save the tom-toms' thunder, swelling now into
a devil's chorus-coming nearer. It seemed to be coming from the
forest, but he reasoned that it could not be; it must be some village
marriage feast, or perhaps an orgy; he had paid out what would seem to
the villagers a lot of money, and it might be that they were
celebrating the occasion. It was strange, though, that he could see no
lights where the village ought to be.

For a moment he had a half-formed intention to shout for Mahommed
Gunga; but he checked that, reasoning that the Rajput might think he
was afraid. Then his eye caught sight of something blacker than the
shadows--something long and thin and creepy that moved, and he
remembered that bed, where the pans of water would protect him, was the
only safe place.

So he returned into the hot, black silence where the tiny lamp-flame
guttered and threw shadows. He wondered why it guttered. It seemed to
be actually short of air. There were four rooms, he remembered, to the
bungalow, all connected and each opening outward by a door that faced
one of the four sides; he wondered whether the outer doors were opened