He was in evening dress, wearing a turban, and in the dusk his dark malign face seemed an embodied sneer at my helplessness. I did not see how Medina took his arrival, for all at once something seemed to give in my head. For the Indian I felt now none of the awe which I had for the other, only a flaming, overpowering hate. That this foul thing out of the East should pursue his devilries unchecked seemed to me beyond bearing. I forgot Medina’s pistol and everything else, and went for him like a wild beast.
He dodged me, and, before I knew, had pulled off his turban, and tossed it in my face.
“Don’t be an old ass, d**k,” he said.
Panting with fury, I stopped short and stared. The voice was Sandy’s, and so was the figure. . . . And the face, too, when I came to look into it. He had done so
