He turned to go, and in leaving pushed the dead man over with his foot.
He saw the hand and the broken ring.
'This thing was once a gentleman,' he said, and he went down the pass.
But Fazir Khan remained by the body. He remembered his guest of two days before, and he cursed himself for underrating this wandering Englishman. He saw himself in evil case. His chances of spoil and glory had departed. He foresaw expeditions of reprisal, and the Bada-Mawidi hunted like partridges upon the mountains. He had staked his all on a desperate chance, and this one man had been his ruin. For a moment the barbarian came out, and in a sudden ferocity he kicked the dead.
But as he looked again he was moved to a juster appreciation.
'This thing was a man,' he said.
Then stooping he dipped his finger in blood and touched his forehead.
'This man,' he said, 'was of the race of kings.'
