Chapter VII

The owl he has eyes that are big for his size, 

And the night like a book he deciphers; 

"Too-woop!" he asserts, and "Hoo-woo-ip!" he cries, 

And he means to remark he is awfully wise; 

But he lags behind us, who are "on" to the lies 

Of the hairy Himalayan knifers! 

For eyes we be, of Empire, we, 

Skinned and puckered and quick to see, 

And nobody guesses how wise we be, 

Nor hidden in what disguise we be, 

A-cooking a sudden surprise we be 

For hairy Himahlyan knifers! 

After a time King urged his horse to a jog-trot, and the five Hillmen pattered in his wake, huddled so close together that the horse could easily have kicked more than one of them. The night was cold enough to make flesh creep; but it was imagination that herded them until they touched the horse's rump and kept the whites of their eyes ever showing as they glanced to left and right. The Khyber, fouled by memory, looks like the very birthplace of the ghosts when the moon is fitful and a mist begins to flow.

"Cheloh!" King called merrily enough; but his horse shied at nothing, because horses have an uncanny way of knowing how their riders really feel. They led mules and the spare horse, instead of dragging at their bridles, pressed forward to have their heads among the men, and every once and again there would sound the dull thump of a fist on a beast's nose—such being the attitude of men toward the lesser beasts.