"Don't use the point!" commanded Brown. "You might do him an injury.
Treat him to a sample of the butt!"

The sentry swung his rifle round with an under-handed motion that
all riflemen used to practise in the short-range-rifle days. The
fakir winced, and gabbled something in a hurry to the man who held
the lamp.

"He says that he will speak, sahib!"

"Halt, then," commanded Brown. "Order arms. Tell him to hurry up!"

The Beluchi translated, and the fakir answered him, in a voice that
sounded hard and distant and emotionless.

"He says that he, too, is here to watch the crossroads, sahib! He
says that he will curse you if you touch him!"

"Tell him to curse away!"

"He says not unless you touch him, sahib."

"Prog him off his perch!" commanded Brown.

The rifle leaped up at the word, and its butt landed neatly on the
fakir's ribs, sending him reeling backward off his balance, but not
upsetting him completely. He recovered his poise with quite astonishing
activity, and shuffled himself back again to the center of the dais.
His eyes blazed with hate and indignation, and his breath came now