And they did; there was no mistaking their import; he was evidently in high glee, and that, I felt, could only mean one thing--the discovery and making prisoner of poor Dost, whose fate must be sealed. But still Salaman made no communication; he only busied himself about his work, waiting on me, seeing to my tent, and then adjusting the sling for my wounded arm. My breakfast was ready beneath the tree; and I walked to it feeling certainly stronger, while every day I passed I could not help noticing how beautifully clean and well prepared everything was, and how pleasant the life beneath the tent would have been, if my mind had only been at peace. Salaman waited upon me with more than his usual ease, and twice over I saw him smiling, as if with greater satisfaction than ever; but still he did not speak, but appeared to avoid my eye, till I could bear it no longer. Feeling that something had occurred--a something which could only mean the discovery of Dost, and the credit he would get with the rajah--I at last asked him sharply what he was laughing at. "I have good news for my lord," he said eagerly; and to me his manner seemed to be full of sneering triumph. "Well, what is it?" I said huskily. "The holy man has gone?" "To prison!" I exclaimed involuntarily, for that was my first thought. "Oh no, my lord; away upon his long journey." "Dead!" I ejaculated. Salaman looked at me wonderingly. "Oh no, my Lord; that kind of old man very seldom dies. They live on and on and on, they are so hard and strange. I have seen many fakirs so thin and dry that they hardly seemed to be alive, but they were, and they went on living. I never saw a fakir die." "Then you mean that he has gone away on his travels--pilgrimage, we call it?" "Yes, my lord, and he will not be here to curse you again." "When--when did he go?" I asked, taking up my coffee, so as to seem indifferent. "Who knows, my lord? No one saw him leave. They come and they go, and some of them are always coming and going. They have no home. Perhaps he went in the night, perhaps as soon as it was day. And with all those wounds not healed, it is wonderful." I was already beginning to enjoy my breakfast at this glorious news, for Dost had evidently got away in safety, and his disguise would no doubt enable him to pass easily through the land. "Well," I said, speaking cheerfully now, "what is your other news?" "Ah, that coffee has done my lord good," said Salaman. "He smiles and looks brighter and better for his highness to see. I made that coffee myself, and it is fresh and good." "Beautiful, Salaman," I said, emptying my cup, and longing for some good honest English milk; "but your news--your other news." "His highness is coming to-day." "How do you know?" I cried, the aroma departing from my coffee, and the chupatties beginning to taste bitter.