necked hunting-spur tumbled on the ground. The doctor groaned. The personal servant peeped at the body.
'What do you think, Chuma?' said Spurstow, catching the look on the dark face.
'Heaven-born, in my poor opinion, this that was my master has descended into the Dark Places, and there has been caught because he was not able to escape with sufficient speed. We have the spur for evidence that he fought with Fear. Thus have I seen men of my race do with thorns when a spell was laid upon them to overtake them in their sleeping hours and they dared not sleep.'
'Chuma, you're a mud-head. Go out and prepare seals to be set on the Sahib's property.'
'God has made the Heaven-born. God has made me. Who are we, to enquire into the dispensations of God? I will bid the other servants hold aloof while you are reckoning the tale of the Sahib's property. They are all thieves, and would steal.'
'As far as I can make out, he died from—oh, anything; stoppage of the heart's action, heat-apoplexy, or some other visitation,' said Spurstow to his companions. 'We must make an inventory of his effects, and so on.'
'He was scared to death,' insisted Lowndes. 'Look at those eyes! For pity's sake don't let him be buried with them open!'
'Whatever it was, he's clear of all the trouble now,' said Mottram softly.
Spurstow was peering into the open eyes.
'Come here,' said he. 'Can you see anything there?'
'I can't face it!' whimpered Lowndes. 'Cover up the face! Is there any fear on earth that can turn a man into that likeness? It's ghastly. Oh, Spurstow, cover it up!'
