They had stopped for some purpose, but that purpose I could not
determine.
"Are they there?" asked Holman.
"Yes," I murmured.
"What are they doing?"
"Sitting in a line staring at the hills."
The youngster gave a grunt, turned his head till he managed to wipe the
mud and blood from his eyes upon my shoulder, then he peered at the
silent three. Their motionless forms fascinated him. It was hard to
connect them with the three bounding devils who had brought us on a
gallop that was more painful than the bareback ride which the Polish
nobleman gave to the intriguing Mazeppa.
"What do you make of it?" he whispered.
"They're resting perhaps."
"Not them! They look as if they're hatching some new villainy."
Minute after minute crept by, but the three remained inactive. They took
no notice of our whispered conversation. No Hindu Yogis ever sat
meditating with the absolute immovability of the three, and as our
wounds stiffened under the cold night air, we became foolishly angry at
the wait. If we had to meet death, it would please us to get it over as
soon as possible.
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