Mahommedan was praying to the Prophet and his two nephews to aid him in
rescuing the sahib and the woman whom the sahib held so dear, for the
all-wise and all-powerful Sirkar is very merciful to offending natives
who thus condone their former crimes.

But, howsoever willing he might be, what could one man do among so
many? The Dyaks were hostile to him in race and creed, and assuredly
infuriated against the foreign devil who had killed or wounded, in
round numbers, one-fifth of their total force. Very likely, the hapless
Mussulman would lose his life that night in attempting to bring water
to the foot of the rock.

Well, he, Jenks, might have something to say in that regard. By
midnight the moon would illumine nearly the whole of Prospect Park. If
the Mahommedan were slain in front of the cavern his soul would travel
to the next world attended by a Nizam's cohort of slaughtered slaves.

Even if the man succeeded in eluding the vigilance of his present
associates, where was the water to come from? There was none on the
island save that in the well. In all likelihood the Dyaks had a store
in the remaining sampans, but the native ally of the beleaguered pair
would have a task of exceeding difficulty in obtaining one of the jars
or skins containing it.

Again, granting all things went well that night, what would be the
final outcome of the struggle? How long could Iris withstand the
exposure, the strain, the heart-breaking misery of the rock? The future
was blurred, crowded with ugly and affrighting fiends passing in
fantastic array before his vision, and mouthing dumb threats of madness
and death.