But I could not feel sorry for my host, because he was so sorry for himself.

He was one of those unfortunates who carry the conviction of their own guilt in their faces.

I gave up all idea of relying on him in case the Sikhs should come.
My next idea was to ask for the loan of one of the donkeys, and to start back toward Jerusalem.

But I had not more than thought of it when men's footsteps pattered on the yard dung, and an indubitable rifle-butt beat on the wooden door.
"For God's sake!" hissed the owner of the place.

He ran to the door to open it as the thumping grew louder.