“Turn, Kurram Khan! Turn that all may see!” Feeling like a man on a spit, he revolved slowly. By the time he had turned once completely around, besides knowing positively that one of the two bracelets on her right arm was the one he had worn, or else its exact copy, he knew that he was not meant to die yet; for his eyes could work much more swiftly than the horn-rimmed spectacles made believe. He decided that Yasmini meant he should be frightened, but not much hurt just yet. So he ceased altogether to feel frightened and took care to look more scared than ever. “Who paid the price of thy admission?” the mullah howled, and King cleared his throat, for he was not quite sure yet what that might mean. “Speak, Kurram Khan!” Yasmini purred, smiling her loveliest. “Tell them whom you slew.” King turned and faced the crowd, raising himself on the balls of his feet to shout, like a man facing thousands of troops on parade. He nearly gave himself away, for habit had him unawares. A native hakim, given the stoutest lungs in all India, would not have shouted in that way. “Cappitin Attleystan King!” he roared. And he nearly jumped out of his skin when his own voice came rattling back at him from the roof overhead. “Cappitin Attleystan King!” it answered. Yasmini chuckled as a little rill will sometimes chuckle among ferns. It was devilish. It seemed to say there were traps not far ahead. “Where was he slain?” asked the mullah. “In the Khyber Pass,” said King. “In the Khyber Pass!” the roof whispered hoarsely, as if aghast at such cold-bloodedness. “Now give proof!” said the mullah. “Words at the gate--proof in the cavern! Without good proof, there is only one way out of here!” “Proof!” the crowd thundered. “Proof!” “Proof! Proof! Proof!” the roof echoed. There was no need for Darya Khan to whisper. King's hands were behind him, and he had seen what he had seen and guessed what he had guessed while he was turning to let the crowd look at him. His fingers closed on human hair. “Nay, it is short!” hissed Darya Khan. “Take the two ears, or hold it by the jawbone! Hold it high in both hands!” King obeyed, without looking at the thing, and Ismail, turning to face the crowd, rose on tiptoe and filled his lungs for the effort of his life. “The head of Cappitin Attleystan King--infidel kaffir--British arrficer!” he howled. “Good!” the crowd bellowed. “Good! Throw it!” The crowd's roar and the roof's echoes combined until pandemonium. “Throw it to them, Kurram Khan!” Yasmini purred from the bridge end, speaking as softly and as sweetly, as if she coaxed a child. Yet her voice carried. He lowered the head, but instead of looking at it he looked up at her. He thought she was enjoying herself and his predicament as he had never seen any one enjoy anything. “Throw it to them, Kurram Khan!” she purred. “It is the custom!” “Throw it! Throw it!” the crowd thundered.