without a sign about them to show that they had met with violence.
Brown rolled one body over, though, and then the cause of death became
more obvious. A stream of blood welled out of the man's back, from
between the shoulder-blades--warm blood, that had not even started
to coagulate.

"They've been dead about three minutes!" commented Brown, rising,
and wiping his hands in the road-dust to get the blood off them.
"Pick 'em up. Carefully, now! Frog-march 'em, face-downwards. That's
better! Now, forward. Quick, march!"

The procession advanced toward the guardhouse in grim silence, and
once again there was no challenge when there should have been. The
lamp was still burning in the guardroom, for they could see it plainly
as they drew nearer, but there was no noise of a sentry's footfalls,
or hoarse "Halt!" and "Who comes there?"

Nor was there any sign yet of the man whom Brown had left to guard
both "clink" and guardroom. Brown let them take their dead comrades
into the guardroom first, then set two fresh guards at the door,
and covered up the bodies with a sheet before commencing to investigate.

He started off toward the cell where he had imprisoned the fakir.
He went by himself, and no one volunteered to go with him.

He had gone five yards when the second explanation met his eyes.
This time there was no need to stoop down, nor to turn any body over.
The sentry whom he had left to guard both cell and guardroom stood
bolt upright, with his mouth and his eyes wide open; skewered to
the wall of the guardhouse by an iron spike, which pierced his chest.