Not answering the challenge of the
sentry for the second time, the latter was about to fire, when I ran
forward and threw up his rifle, which discharged in the air.
A second
later, and the man would have been shot, in which case I do not
suppose we should ever have seen Quetta. The message was from Malak,
inviting me to a "Zigri," a kind of religious dance, taking place just
outside the village. After some reflection, I decided to go. It might,
of course, mean treachery, but the probability was that the chief,
afraid of being reported to the Indian Government for his insolence
and insubordination, wished to atone for his conduct before I left.
Under the messenger's guidance, and attended by Gerome and a guard of
five men with loaded rifles, I set out. Both the Russian and myself
carried and prominently displayed a brace of revolvers. A walk of ten
minutes brought us to a cleared space by the river. In the centre
blazed a huge bonfire, round which, in a semicircle, were squatted
some two or three hundred natives, watching the twistings and
contortions of half a dozen grotesque creatures with painted faces,
and long, streaming hair, who, as they turned slowly round and round,
varied the performance with leaps and bounds, alternately groaning,
wailing, and screaming at the top of their voices.
[Illustration: A "ZIGRI" IN GWARJAK]
A horn, a lute, and half a dozen tom-toms accompanied the dance. Some
distance away, and surrounded by his grim-looking guard, sat Malak,
who, though he did not rise to receive me, beckoned me to his side
with more politeness than usual. It was a weird, strange sight. The
repulsive, half-naked figures leaping round the fire, the silent,
awestruck crowd of Baluchis, the wild barbaric music, and pillar of
flame flashing on the dark, sullen face of Malak and his followers,
was not a little impressive, especially as I was in a state of
pleasing uncertainty as to the object of my host's sudden change of
manner, and whether this might not be a little dramatic introduction
to an attack upon our party. This was, however, evidently not my sulky
friend's intention, for, as I rose to go, he actually stood up and
took my hand. "At Gajjar," he said, "you will be able to get all you
want, but take my advice, and get away from here early to-morrow
morning. They do not like you."
Four hours after we were _en route_. The Zigri was still going on
as we rode out of the village. Malak and his guard still sat
motionless, the weird dancers and crowd of onlookers were still
there, the huge bonfire blazing as brightly as ever, though the
Eastern sky was lightening. As we passed within a hundred yards, I
waved my hand, but the compliment was not returned. Some of the crowd
looked up at the caravan; all must have seen it, but averted their
faces till we had passed.
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