The man could walk by that time—­he was presumably abstemious and recovered from shock quickly.  Monty sent me to see him to his room, which turned out to be next the German’s, and until Will came over from our quarters with first-aid stuff from our chest I spent the minutes telling the German what should happen to him in case he should so far forget discretion as to resume the offensive.  He said nothing in reply, but sat in his doorway looking up at me with an expression intended to make me feel nervous of reprisals without committing him to deeds.

Later, when we had done our best for “the martyred biped Measel,” as Fred described him, Will and I found Rustum Khan with Fred and Monty seated around the charcoal brazier in Monty’s room, deep in the valley of reminiscences.  Our entry rather broke the spell, but Rustum Khan was not to be denied.

“You used to tell in those days, Colonel sahib bahadur,” he said, addressing Monty with that full-measured compliment that the chivalrous, old East still cherishes, “of a castle of your ancestors in these parts.  Do you remember, when I showed you the ruins of my family place in Rajputana, how you stood beside me on the heights, sahib, and vowed some day to hunt for that Crusaders’ nest, as you called it?”

“That is the immediate purpose of this trip of ours,” said Monty.

“Ah!” said the Rajput, and was silent for about a minute.  Fred Oakes began to hum through his nose.  He has a ridiculous belief that doing that throws keen inquirers off a scent.

“Colonel sahib, since I was a little butcha not as high as your knee I have spoken English and sat at the feet of British officers.  Little enough I know, but by the beard of God’s prophet I know this:  when a British colonel sahib speaks of ‘immediate purposes,’ there are hidden purposes of greater importance!”

“That well may be,” said Monty gravely.  “I remember you always were a student of significant details, Rustum Khan.”

“There was a time when I was in your honor’s confidence.”

Monty smiled.

“That was years ago.  What are you doing here, Rustum Khan?”

“A fair enough question!  I hang my head.  As you know, sahib, I am a rangar.  My people were all Sikhs for several generations back.  We converts to Islam are usually more thorough-going than born Moslems are.  I started to make the pilgrimage to Mecca, riding overland alone by way of Persia.  As I came, missing few opportunities to talk with men, who should have been the lights of my religion, I have felt enthusiasm waning.  These weeks past I have contemplated return without visiting Mecca at all.  I have wandered to and fro, hoping for the fervor back again, yet finding none.  And now, sahib, I find you—­I, Rustum Khan, at a loose end for lack of inspiration.  I have prayed.  Colonel sahib bahadur, I believe thou art the gift of God!"’

Monty sought our eyes in turn in the lantern-lit darkness.  We made no sign.  None of us but he knew the Rajput, so it was plainly his affair.