The man did not answer. He was a jezailchi of the Khyber Rifles--
hook-nosed as an osprey--black-bearded--with white teeth glistening
out of a gap in the darkness of his lower face. And he was armed
with a British government rifle, although that is no criterion in
that borderland of professional thieves where many a man has offered
himself for enlistment with a stolen government rifle in his grasp.

The waler he rode was an officer's charger. The poor brute sobbed
and heaved and sweated in his tracks as his rightful owner surely
had never made him do.

"Whither?" King demanded.

"Jamrud!"

The jezailchi growled the one-word answer with one eye on King, but
the other eye still squinted down the pistol barrel warily.

"Have you a letter?"

The man did not answer.

"You may speak to me. I am of your regiment. I am Captain King."

"That is a lie, and a poor one!" the fellow answered. "But a very
little while ago I spoke with King sahib in Ali Masjid Fort, and
he is no cappitin, he is leftnant. Therefore thou art a liar twice
over--nay, three times! Thou art no officer of Khyber Rifles! I
am a jezailchi, and I know them all!"