There followed an interval of some minutes, during which Phil began to chafe with feverish impatience. Then at last the shadow became substance, moving into his line of vision, and a man, wrapped in a long, native garment and wearing a _chuddah_ that concealed the greater part of his face, glided into the hut on noiseless, sandalled feet. He held a naked knife in his hand, and Phil's heart began to thud unpleasantly. It taxed all a man's self-control to face death in cold blood, trussed hand and foot and helpless as an infant. But he gripped himself hard, and faced the weapon without flinching. It would not do to let these murderous ruffians see a white man afraid. "Hullo!" he said contemptuously. "Come to put the finishing touch, I suppose? You'll hang for it, you infernal, treacherous brute; but that's a detail you border thieves don't seem to mind." It eased the tension to hurl verbal defiance at his murderer, and there was just the chance that the fellow might understand a little English. But when his visitor stooped over him and deliberately cut his bonds, he was astounded into silence. He waited dumfounded, and a muscular hand gripped his shoulder, holding him motionless. "You'll be all right," a quiet voice said, "if you don't make a confounded fool of yourself." Phil gave a great start, and the hand that gripped him tightened. Through the gloom he made out the outline of a grim, bearded face. "Control yourself!" the quiet voice ordered. "Do you think I've done this for nothing? We are alone--it may be for five minutes, it may be for less. Get out of your things--sharp, and let me have them." "Great Jupiter--Tudor!" gasped Phil. "Yes--Tudor!" came the curt response. "Don't stop to jaw. Do as I tell you." He took his hand from Phil's shoulder and stood up, backing into the shadows. Phil stood up, too, straightening himself with an effort. The suddenness of this thing had thrown him momentarily off his balance. "Quick!" commanded Tudor in a fierce whisper. "Take off your clothes. There isn't a second to lose." But Phil stood uncertain. "What's the game, Major?" he asked. Tudor's hand gripped him again and violently. "You fool!" he whispered savagely. "Don't stand gaping there! Can't you see it's a matter of life and death? Do you want to be killed?" "No, but--" Phil broke off. Tudor in that frame of mind was a stranger to him, but he was none the less one who must be obeyed. Mechanically almost he yielded to the man's insistence and began to strip off his clothes. Tudor helped him with an energy that neither fumed nor faltered. Mute obedience was all he required. But when he dropped the garment he wore from his own shoulders, Phil paused to protest. "I am not going to wear that!" he said. "What about you?" "I can look after myself," Tudor answered curtly. "Get into it--quick! There is no time for arguing. You're going to wear these, too."