Straight from my waist, and from under my _poncho_,
I fired. His knife fell ringing on to the floor; he swerved, then fell
back, coming to the ground with a heavy thud. Over his falling body
I leaped, and almost before he had touched the ground was several yards
away, then, wheeling round, I found the other two men rushing out after
me.
"Back!" I shouted, covering the foremost of the two with my revolver.
They instantly stood still.
"We are not following you, friend," said one, "but only wish to get
out of the place."
"Back, or I fire!" I repeated, and then they retreated into the porch.
They had stood by unconcerned while their cut-throat comrade Gandara
was threatening my life, so that I naturally felt angry with them.
I sprang upon my horse, but, instead of riding away at once, stood for
some minutes by the gate watching the two men. They were kneeling by
Gandara, one opening his clothes to look for the wound, the other
holding a flaring candle over his ashen, corpse-like face.
"Is he dead?" I asked.
One of the men looked up and answered, "It appears so."
"Then," I returned, "I make you a present of his carcass."
After that, digging my spurs into my horse, I galloped away.
Some readers might imagine, after what I had related, that my sojourn
in the Purple Land had quite brutalised me; I am happy to inform them
that it was not so.
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