It was ultradevilish; both by design and accident--conceived and
calculated ghastliness, peculiar to India. Brown shuddered as he
looked, and it took more than the merely horrible to make him betray
emotion.

"What god do you say he worships?"

"Sahib, I know not. I am a Mussulman. These Hindus worship many gods."

The fakir chuckled again, and Brown held the lantern yet nearer to
him to get a better view. The fakir's skin was not oily, and for
all the blanket-heat it did not glisten, so his form was barely outlined
against the blackness that was all but tangible behind him.

Brown spat again, as he drew away a step. He could contrive to express
more disgust and more grim determination in that one rudimentary act
than even a Stamboul Softa can.

"So he's holy, is he?"

"Very, very holy, sahib!"

Again the fakir chuckled, and again Brown held his breath and pushed
the lantern closer to him.

"I believe the brute understands the Queen's English!"

"He understanding all things, sahib! He knowing all things what
will happen! Mind, sahib! He may curse you!"