CHAPTER X.
RESURGAM.
They were gone.
The last camel had departed, the tail of the hindmost mule had vanished over the rocky ridge, a hundred feet or so above the inn, which formed the apex of the mountain pass, Zhad-uan; the shrill “sok! sok!” of the K’ambas was heard no more.
Inside the inn Maurice, Dr. Philpot, and your humble servant stood leaning against the k’ang, contemplating the lifeless body of Mr. Mirrikh, which, still enveloped in its sheepskin covering, lay upon its side at our feet.
Thus we had been standing for a good ten minutes; thus Ah Schow found us still standing when he returned from the stable after feeding the mules with barley, begged almost for its weight in Chinese sapeks from one of the camel drivers of the caravan, for we had seen the last of our own supply. Thus, perhaps, we might have kept right on standing and staring for the rest of the night, but for the Doctor’s habit of rising to the situation, no matter how bad it might be.
“Blow me, boys, if this isn’t the rum go, you know!” he exclaimed at last.” “You could have knocked me over with a feather, Maurice, when you came in singing out that Mirrikh was dead.”
“It’s a serious business, Doctor! A serious business,” replied Maurice gloomily. “You must admit it’s pretty hard on a fellow to have all his plans knocked in the head.”
“Best thing that ever happened you,” I said decidedly.
“Same here!” added the Doctor. “Thank God we’ll see the last of this crazy business now, and start back for Calcutta before we become corpses ourselves.”
But Maurice never answered. Instead, he gave me one of his reproachful looks which always had the effect of turning me to his side.
