He awoke again to see the tribesmen surging round him, fiercely shouting. The room re-echoed with reiterated cries of "_Sharm! Sharm!_"[1] and a howl that was so unmistakably for blood that it chilled him to the heart. The room was lighter now--the rags had been pulled down from the high loopholes in the wall. He saw Muhammed Din standing before him, fending off his adversaries. He was still incapable of voluntary movement. A great faintness swept over him. He reeled back; found himself supported by the angle of the wall. He had been thrust back there all unconscious of the movement. Dazed and sick, he heard Muhammed Din speaking. "O children of the Hills, Allah and His holy Prophet sent me to you to rescue you from the snare of the Evil One. On me is laid the charge of vengeance upon this wretch, who was my slave ere he became the possessed of Shaitan. But this much of vengeance will I grant ye, for this much is just. He made a mock of you. Make ye a mock of him. Let him be driven out of the village, face tailwards upon an ass. The women and children shall cry derision upon the runaway servant who came to deceive you as a saint with the false magic of Shaitan!" Staring speechlessly before him, the exposed charlatan heard the howls of approval of the mob. His faintly working intellect wondered how the mullah was taking this deception--perhaps even yet---- He saw Muhammed Din hold up a large bag of money. He recognized it with a last hopelessness. "This gold"--Muhammed Din emptied some of it upon his hand--"this gold hath my servant surely received from Shaitan. It is accursed unless some holy man receive it. Therefore to you, O Mullah, do I give it." The mullah snatched at it. "Great is Allah and for the meanest of His creatures doth He provide!" he said. "Thou speakest truth, O holy fakir. Praise be to Allah that I am here to protect the faithful from the accursed magic of this gold. As to this wretch, accursed of Allah, let him be driven quickly forth as thou sayest, O holy one! It is meet that thy vengeance should not have to linger." There was a rush at the fallen magician. He swooned into their arms. * * * * * Some little time later, when the last stone had been flung and the last epithet of mocking insult had ceased to echo from the hills, Schultz Sahib, his hands bound behind his back, his feet tied under the belly of his mount, raised his eyes from the ass's tail that he had been contemplating. "Thou hast won, O Muhammed Din--but even yet I do not understand. What happened?" The fakir smiled. "Thou hast thy magics, Schultz Sahib--what thinkest thou of the magic of Muhammed Din? Hurry, O Willem, hurry!" he cried, as his stick descended with a resounding thwack upon the hind-quarters of the ass. "Thou art laggard in thy invasion of the territories of the English!" * * * * *