"Listen, brothers," he said in a mysterious whisper which Ahmed could barely catch. "'Tis nigh a hundred years since the Feringhi Clive, that son of perdition, defeated the host of Siraj-uddaula at Plassey. A holy man foretold that when the evil dominion of the Feringhis had endured for a hundred years, it should fade and vanish as a dream. The time is at hand, my brothers. Have I not lately received the sign from the hands of the Maulavi himself, the saint who now goes to and fro to stir the hearts of the faithful? Behold!" Ahmed turned his eye quickly to the hole, and saw the fakir produce from his loin-cloth a chapati--a flat cake of unleavened bread--which he handed with a solemn gesture to one of the Guides. The man took it as though it were a sacred object. "That is the sign chosen by the holy Maulavi Ahmed Ullah of Faizabad. Pass it to your comrades, brother, such of them as are true. I myself may no longer stay: I have far to go. Work in silence and discreetly, but with no loss of time. The hour is at hand; no man knoweth when the Maulavi may give the word. The train is laid from Meerut to Calcutta. The prize--wealth in this world and bliss in the world to come--is for him who leads, not for him who follows, in the blessed work. I will record your names, so that the Maulavi may have you in remembrance." Ahmed had been so intently watching, that, being unable to hear and see at the same time, he lost part of this address. When he put his ear again to the hole, he could not catch the whispered words. With his knife he slightly enlarged the opening, and was straining his ears when he heard a light footfall behind him. Before he could turn, an arm was flung round his neck, a hand was pressed over his mouth, and in spite of his struggles to free himself he was held there until his captor, joined by others, securely gagged and trussed him. The man nearest him in the hut had heard the scratching of his knife, and crept out; his companions had followed him; and Ahmed was a prisoner. While one of the men was scouting to make sure that nobody approached, the others dragged their captive round the hut and in at the doorway. As he entered, the fakir rose to his feet, and a glare of triumph lit his eyes. "A spy!" he cried in a whisper. "Allah protects the faithful." "Shall it be a knife, holy one?" asked one of the men. "Nay, nay," said another, "a knife means blood on the floor. And how could we carry him from the lines? Within a little the gun will signal for 'lights out,' and the gates will be closed. We could not carry a dead man without being seen by the sentry. 'Tis easier to carry a man alive than dead." "But we cannot keep him here," said the third. "'Tis Ahmed, the child who puts his elders to shame at man's work, and licks the boots of the sahibs. Search will be made for him; the braggart Sherdil, who shares his hut, will raise a cry when he is missed. This is evil work: he will betray us."