"A lamp and four men here!" ordered Brown, without waiting to let
the horror of the sight sink in. "Take that poor chap down, and lay
him in the guardroom beside the others. How? How should I know?
Pull it out, or break it off--I don't care which; don't leave him
there, that's all."

He walked on toward the cell-door, while they labored, and fingered
gingerly around the spike, which must have been driven through the
sentry's chest with a hammer.

"I thought as much!" he muttered. And, though be had not thought
as much, he might have done so. "I knew that a man who could maim
his own body in that way was capable of any crime in the calendar!"

The door of the cell stood open, and there was no sign of any fakir,
or of any one who might have helped him go--nothing but an empty
cell, with the haunting smell of the fakir still abiding in it.

Bill Brown spat, and closed the cell-door.

"I'm thinking that Juggut Khan told nothing but the truth," he muttered.
"Things look right, don't they, if that's so! Obey, Obey! I'd have
liked to see England just once again--I would indeed. If I could
only see her just once. If I'd a letter from her, or her picture.
This is a rotten, rat-in-a-hole, lonely, uncreditable way to die!
I wish Juggut Khan were here. I'd have somebody to help me keep my
good courage up in that case."

The lock on the cell-door was broken, so he only closed it, then started