Just within, in a little court,
Yacoub, with heavy drum-stick, was pounding from the huge drum a
thunderous vibrant roar, and somebody at his command had seized a horn,
and from its copper throat a strident shriek of alarm split the air.
The narrow street was now one surging mass of excited Pindaris. With
their riding whips they slashed viciously at any one other than their
own soldier caste that ventured near, driving them out, crying: "This
is alone for the Pindaris!"
A powerful, whiskered jamadar pushed his way through the mob, throwing
men to the right and left with sweeps of his strong arm, and, reaching
the guard, was told that Amir Khan lay up in his room, murdered. Then
an _hazari_ (commander of five thousand) came running and pushed
through the throng that the full force of the tragedy held almost
silent.
The guard saluted, saying: "Commander Kassim, the Chief has been slain."
"How--who?"
"I know not, Commander."
"Who has passed the guard here?"
"But one, the Afghan, who was expected by the Chief. He went forth but
lately.
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