“All right,” said his brother. “Then good-by, old man!” “Good-by, Athelstan!” They stood facing and shook hands. Where had been a man and his reflection in the mist, there now seemed to be the same man and a native. Athelstan King had changed his very nature with his clothes. He stood like a native--moved like one; even his voice was changed, as if--like the actor who dyed himself all over to act Othello--he could do nothing by halves. “I'm going to try to get in without my men seeing me!” said the younger. “If they do see you, they'll shoot!” “Yes, and miss! Trust a Khyber jezailchi not to hit much in the dark! It'll do 'em good either way. I'll have time to give 'em the password before they fire a second volley. They're not really dangerous till the third one. Good-by!” “By, Charles!” Officers in that force are not chosen for their clumsiness, or inability to move silently by night. His foot-steps died in the mist almost as quickly as his shadow. Before he had been gone a minute the Pass was silent as death again, and though Athelstan listened with trained ears, the only sound he could detect was of a jackal cracking a bone fifty or sixty yards away. He repacked the loads, putting everything back carefully into the big leather envelopes and locking the empty hand-bag, after throwing in a few stones for Ismail's benefit. Then he went to sit in the moonlight, with his back to a great rock and waited there cross-legged to give his brother time to make good a retreat through the mist. When there was no more doubt that his own men, at all events, had failed to detect the lieutenant, he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Almost at once he heard sandals come pattering from both directions. As they emerged out of the mist he sat silent and still. It was Darya Khan who came first and stood gaping at him, but Ismail was a very close second, and the other three were only a little behind. For full two minutes after the man with the sore stomach had come they all stood holding one another's arms, astonished. Then-- “Where is he?” asked Ismail. “Who?” said King, the hakim. “Our sahib--King sahib--where is he?” “Gone!” Even his voice was so completely changed that men who had been reared amid mutual suspicion could not recognize it. “But there are his loads! There is his mule!” “Here is his bag!” said Ismail, pouncing on it, picking it up and shaking it. “It rattles not as formerly! There is more in it than there was!” “His two horses and the mule are here,” said Darya Khan.