He was listless, bemused. What was it, then, that made him suddenly
spring erect? What gave him that strange uneasiness? He had heard
nothing, seen nothing, yet he faced round, and stood at the head of the
steps with his back to the sea. The figures prone below him felt that he
was looking toward them. They held their breath. Both were on the topmost
step but one; only a narrow space separated them from the sentinel; they
could hear the movement of his jaws as he chewed a betel {nut of the
areca palm wrapped in the leaf of the betel plant}.
Thus a few moments passed. Desmond's pulse beat in a fever of impatience;
every second was precious. Then the sentinel moved; his uneasiness seemed
to be allayed; he began to hum a Maratha camp song, and, half turning,
glanced once more out to the sea.
The moment was come. Silently Fuzl Khan rose to his feet; he sprang
forward with the lightness, the speed, the deadly certainty of a Thug
{name of a class of hereditary stranglers}, his hand was on the man's
throat. Desmond, close behind, had a gag ready, but there was no need to
use it. In the open the Gujarati could exert his strength more freely
than through the narrow windows of the shed. Almost before Desmond
reached his side the sentinel was dead.
In that desperate situation there was no time to expostulate. While the
Gujarati laid the hapless man gently beside the gun that peeped through
the embrasure of the parapet, Desmond picked up the sentinel's matchlock,
ran softly back, and summoned his companions.
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