“Between us, it is a poor time for messages to him. He is too full of pride that his lashkar should have beaten the British.” “Did they beat the British greatly?” King asked him, with only vague interest on his face and a prayer inside him that his heart might flutter less violently against his ribs. His voice was as non-committal as the mullah's message. “Who knows, when so many men would rather lie than kill? Each one who returned swears he slew a hundred. But some did not return. Wait and watch, say I!” Now a man stood up near the edge of the crowd whom King recognized; and recognition brought no joy with it. The mullah without hair or eyelashes, who had admitted him and his party through the mosque into the Caves, strode out to the middle of the arena all alone, strutting and swaggering. He recalled the man's last words and drew no consolation from them, either. “Many have entered! Some went out by a different road!” Cold chills went down his back. All at once Ismail's manner became unencouraging. He ceased to make a fuss over the dancer and began to eye King sidewise, until at last he seemed unable to contain the malice that would well forth. “At the gate there were only words!” he whispered. “Here in this cavern men wait for proof!” He licked his teeth suggestively, as a wolf does when he contemplates a meal. Then, as an afterthought, as though ashamed, “I love thee! Thou art a man after my own heart! But I am her man! Wait and see!” The mullah in the arena, blinking with his lashless eyes, held both arms up for silence in the attitude of a Christian priest blessing a congregation. The guards backed his silent demand with threatening rifles. The din died to a hiss of a thousand whispers, and then the great cavern grew still, and only the river could be heard sucking hungrily between the smooth stone banks. “God is great!” the mullah howled. “God is great!” the crowd thundered in echo to him; and then the vault took up the echoes. “God is great--is great--is great--ea--ea--eat!” “And Muhammad is His prophet!” howled the mullah. Instantly they answered him again. “And Muhammad is His prophet!” “His prophet--is His prophet--is His prophet!” said the stalactites, in loud barks--then in murmurs--then in awe-struck whispers. That seemed to be all the religious ritual Khinjan remembered or could tolerate. Considering that the mullah, too, must have killed his man in cold blood before earning the right to be there, perhaps it was enough--too much. There were men not far from King who shuddered. “There are strangers!” announced the mullah, as a man might say, “I smell a rat!” But he did not look at anybody in particular; he blinked at the crowd. “Strangers!” said the stalactites, in an awe-struck whisper. “Show them! Show them! Let them stand forth!” “Oh-h-h-h-h! Let them stand forth!” said the roof. The mullah bowed as if that idea were a new one and he thought it better than his own; for all crowds love flattery.