THE YELLOW FAKIR.
The days passed to weeks, the weeks to a month, after that shedding of
first blood, and no more was spilled, save that of the shedders. Two
of them were hanged, the regiment ordered to be disbanded. For the
rest, though causeless fires broke out in every cantonment, though a
Sikh orderly divulged to his master some tale of a concerted rising,
though the dread of the greased cartridge grew to a perfect panic,
even Jim Douglas, with his eyes wide open, was forced to admit that,
so far as any chance of action went, the reply might still be "_Delhi
dur ust_." The sky was dark indeed, there were mutterings on the
horizon; but he and others remembered how often in India, even when
rain is due, the clouds creep up and up day by day, darker and more
lowering, until the yellowing crops seem to grow greener in sheer hope
of the purple pall above them. And then some unseen hand juggles those
portentous rain-clouds into the daily darkness of night, and some dawn
rises clear and dry to show, in its fierce blaze of sunlight, how the
yellow has gained on the green.
So, day by day, the impression grew among the elect that the storm
signals would pass; that the best policy was to tide over the next few
months somehow. In pursuance of which a sepoy who ventured to draw
attention to the state of feeling in one regiment was publicly told he
need expect no promotion.
But there were dissentients to this policy, apparently. Anyhow, in the
end of April, Colonel Carmichael Smyth, commanding the 3d Bengal
Cavalry at Meerut, returned from leave one evening, and ordered
fifteen men from each troop to be picked out to learn the use of the
new cartridge next morning, and then went to bed comfortably. The men,
through their native officers, appealed to their captain for delay.
They were neither prepared to take nor refuse the cartridges, old or
new. No answer was given them. They marched to the parade obediently
at sunrise, and eighty-five of the ninety men picked from a picked
regiment for smartness and intelligence refused to take the
cartridges, even from their Colonel's or their Adjutant's hand. Their
own troop officers were not present. They were at once tried by a
court-martial of native officers, some of whom came from the regiments
at Delhi; but thirty odd miles off along a broad, level driving road.
They were sentenced to ten years' penal servitude, and a parade of all
troops was ordered for sunrise on the 9th of May, to put the sentence
into force.
So the night of the 8th found Jim Douglas riding over from Delhi in
the cool to see something which, if anything could, ought to turn mere
talk into action. It had brought a new sound into the air already. The
clang of cold iron upon hot, rising from the regimental smithy, where
the fetters for the eighty-five were being forged. A cruel sound at
best, proclaiming the indubitable advantage of coolness and hardness
over glow and plasticity. Cruel indeed when the hardness and
insistency goes to the forging of fetters for emotion and ignorance.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sound rang out into the hot airless night, rang out into the gusty
dawn; for it takes time to forge eighty-five pairs of shackles. Rang
out to where a mixed guard of the 11th and 20th Regiments of Native
Infantry were waiting round the tumbrils for the last fetter. The gray
of dawn showed the rest piled on the tumbrils, showed two English
officers on horseback talking to each other a little way off, showed
the faces of the guard dark and lowering like the dawn itself.
"_Loh!_ sergeant _jee!_ there is the last," said the master-armorer
cheerfully. His task was done, at any rate.
Soma took it from him silently, and flung it on the others almost
fiercely; it settled among them with a clank. His regiment, the 11th,
had but newly come to Meerut, and therefore had as yet no ties of
personal comradeship with the eighty-five, but fetters for any sepoys
were enough to make the pulse beat full and heavy.
"The last, thank Heaven!" said the Captain, giving his bridle rein a
jag. "All right forward, Jones! Then fall in, men. Quick march! We are
late enough as it is."
The disciplined feet fell in without a waver; the tumbrils moved on
with a clank and a creak.
Quick march! Soma's mind, fair reflection of the minds of all about
him, was full of doubt. Was that indeed the last fetter, or did Rumor
say sooth when it told of others being secretly forged? Who could say
in these days, when the Huzoors themselves had taken to telling lies.
Not his Huzoors as yet; his Colonels and Captains and Majors, even the
little sahib, who laughed over his own mistakes on parade, told the
truth still. But the others lied. Lied about enlistment, about
prize-money and leave, about those cartridges. At least, so the men in
the 20th said; the sergeant marching next to him behind the tumbril
most of all.
"'Tis but three weeks longer, comrade," said this man suddenly in a
low whisper. They were treading the dim, deserted outskirts of the
cantonment bazaar, and Soma looked round nervously at the officers
behind. Had they heard? He frowned at the speaker and made no reply.
He gave a deaf ear, when he could, to the talk in the 20th; but that
was not always, for its sepoys were a part of the Bengal army. That
army which was not--as a European army is--a mere chance collection of
men divided from each other in the beginning and end of life,
associated loosely with each other in its middle, and using military
service as a make-shift; but, to a great extent, a guild, following
the profession of arms by hereditary custom from the cradle to the
grave.
Quick march! A woman, early astir, peered at the little procession
through the chink of a door, and whispered to an unseen companion
behind. What was she saying? What, by implication, would other women,
who peeped virtuously--women he knew--say of his present occupation?
That he was a coward to be guarding his comrades' fetters? No doubt;
since others with less right would say it too. All the miserable,
disreputable riff-raff, for instance, which had drifted in from the
neighborhood to see the show. The bazaar had been full of it these
three days past. Even the sweepers, pariahs, out-castes, would snigger
over the misfortunes of their betters--as those two ahead were
doubtless sniggering already as they drew aside from their slave's
work of sweeping the roadway, to let the tumbrils pass. Drew aside
with mock deference, leaving scantiest room for the twice-born
following them. So scant, indeed, that the outermost tip of a reed
broom, flourished in insolent salaam, touched the Rajput's sleeve. It
was the veriest brush, no more than a fly's wing could have given; but
the half-stifled cry from Soma's lips meant murder--nothing less. His
disciplined feet wavered, he gave a furtive glance at his companions.
Had they seen the insult? Could they use it against him?
"Eyes front, there; forward!" came the order from behind, and he
pulled himself together by instinct and went on.
"Only three weeks longer, brother!" said that voice beside him
meaningly; and a dull rage rose in Soma's heart. So it had been seen.
It might be said of him, Soma, that he had tamely submitted to a
defiling touch. He did not look round at his officers this time. They
might hear if they chose, the future might hold what it chose. Mayhap
they had seen the insult and were laughing at it. They were not his
Huzoors; they belonged to the man at his side, who had the right to
taunt him. As a matter of fact, they were discussing the chances of
their ponies in next week's races; but Soma, lost in a great wrath, a
great fear, made it, inevitably, the topic of the whole world.
Hark! The bugle for the Rifles to form; they were to come to the
parade loaded with ball cartridge. And that rumble was the Artillery,
loaded also, going to take up their position. By and by the
Carabineers would sweep with a clatter and a dash to form the third
side of the hollow square, whereof the fourth was to be a mass of
helpless dark faces, with the eighty-five martyrs and tumbrils in the
middle. Soma had seen it all in general orders, talked it over with
his dearest friend, and called it tyranny. And now the tumbrils
clanked past a little heap of smoldering ashes, that but the day
before had been a guard-house. The lingering smoke from this last work
of the incendiary drifted northward, after the fetters, making one of
the officers cough. But he went on talking of his ponies. True type of
the race which lives to make mistakes, dies to retrieve them. Quick
march!
Streams of spectators bound for the show began to overtake them, ready
with comments on what Soma guarded. And on the broad white Mall,
dividing the native half of the cantonments and the town of Meerut
from the European portion, more than one carriage with a listless,
white-faced woman in it dashed by, on its way to see the show. The
show!
Quick march! Whatever else might be possible in the futures that was
all now, midway between the barracks of the Rifles and the
Carabineers, with the church--mute symbol of the horror which, day by
day, month by month, had been closing in round the people--blocking
the way in front. So they passed on to the wide northern parade
ground, with that hollow square ready; three sides of it threatening
weapons, the fourth of unarmed men, and in the center the eighty-five
picked men of a picked regiment.
The knot of European spectators round the flag listened with yawns to
the stout General's exordium. The eighty-five being hopelessly,
helplessly in the wrong by military law, there seemed to be no need to
insist on the fact. And the mass of dark faces standing within range
of loaded guns and rifles, within reach of glistening sabers, did not
listen at all. Not that it mattered, since the units in that crowd had
lost the power of accepting facts. Even Soma, standing to attention
beside the tumbrils, only felt a great sense of outrage, of wrong, of
injustice somewhere. And there was one Englishman, at least, rigid to
attention also before his disarmed, dismounted, yet loyal troop, who
must have felt it also, unless he was more than human. And this was
Captain Craigie, who, when his men appealed to him to save them, to
delay this unnecessary musketry parade, had written in his haste to
the Adjutant, "Go to Smyth at once! Go to Smyth!" and Smyth was his
Colonel! Incredible lack of official etiquette. Repeated hardily,
moreover. "Pray don't lose a moment, but go to Smyth and tell him."
What? Only "that this is a most serious matter, and we may have the
whole regiment in open mutiny in half an hour if it is not attended
to." Only that! So it is to be hoped that Captain Craigie had the
official wigging for his unconventional appeal in his pocket as he
shared his regiment's disgrace, to serve him as a warning--or a
consolation.
And now the pompous monotone being ended, the silence, coming after
the clankings, and buglings, and trampings which had been going on
since dawn, was almost oppressive. The three sides of steel, even the
fourth of faces, however, showed no sign. They stood as stone while
the eighty-five were stripped of their uniforms. But there was more to
come. By the General's orders the leg-irons were to be riveted on one
by one; and so, once more, the sound of iron upon iron recurred
monotonously, making the silence of the intervals still more
oppressive. For the prisoners at first seemed stunned by the isolation
from even their as yet unfettered comrades. But suddenly from a single
throat came that cry for justice, which has a claim to a hearing, at
least, in the estimation of the people of India.
"_Dohai! Dohai! Dohai!_"
Soma gave a sort of sigh, and a faint quiver of expectation passed
over the sea of dark faces.
Clang! Clang! The hammers, going on unchecked, were the only answer.
Those three sides of stone had come to see a thing done, and it must
be done; the sooner the better. But the riveting of eighty-five pairs
of leg-irons is not to be done in a moment; so the cry grew clamorous.
Dohai! Dohai! Had they not fought faithfully in the past? Had they not
been deceived? Had they had a fair chance?
But the hammers went on as the sun climbed out of the dust-haze to
gleam on the sloped sabers, glint on the loaded guns, and send
glittering streaks of light along the rifles.
So the cry changed. Were their comrades cowards to stand by and see
this tyranny and raise no finger of help? Oh! curses on them! 'Tis
they who were degraded, dishonored. Curses on the Colonel who had
forced them to this! Curses on every white face!--curses on every face
which stood by!
One, close to the General's flag, broke suddenly into passionate
resentment. Jim Douglas drew out his watch, looked at it, and gathered
his reins together. "An hour and forty-five minutes already. I'm off,
Ridgeway. I can't stand this d----d folly any more."
"My dear fellow, speak lower! If the General----"
"I don't care who hears me," retorted Jim Douglas recklessly as he
steered through the crowd, followed by his friend, "I say it is d----d
inconceivable folly and tyranny. Come on, and let's have a gallop, for
God's sake, and get rid of that devilish sound."
The echo of their horses' resounding hoofs covered, obliterated it.
The wind of their own swiftness seemed to blow the tension away. So
after a spin due north for a mile or two they paused at the edge
of a field where the oxen were circling placidly round on the
threshing-floors and a group of women were taking advantage of the
gustiness to winnow. Their bare, brown arms glistened above the
falling showers of golden grain, their unabashed smiling faces showed
against the clouds of golden chaff drifting behind them.
Jim Douglas looked at them for a moment, returned the salaam of the
men driving the oxen and forking the straw, then turned his horse
toward the cantonment again.
"It is nothing to them; that's one comfort," he said. "But they will
have to suffer for it in the end, I expect. Who will believe when the
time comes that this"--he gave a backward wave of his hand--"went on
unwittingly of that?"
His companion, following his look ahead, to where, in the far
distance, a faint cloud of dust, telling of many feet, hung on the
horizon, said suddenly, as if the sight brought remembrance: "By
George! Douglas, how steady the sepoys stood! I half expected a row."
"Steadier than I should," remarked the other grimly. "Well, I hope
Smyth is satisfied. To return from leave and drive your regiment into
mutiny in twelve hours is a record performance."
His hearer, who was a civilian, gave a deprecating cough. "That's a
bit hard, surely. I happen to know that he heard while on leave some
story about a concerted rising later on. He may have done it
purposely, to force their hands."
Jim Douglas shrugged his shoulders. "Did he warn you what he was about
to do? Did he allow time to prepare others for his private mutiny? My
dear Ridgeway, it was put on official record two months ago that an
organized scheme for resistance existed in every regiment between
Calcutta and Peshawur; so Smyth might at least have consulted the
colonels of the other two regiments at Meerut. As it is, the business
has strained the loyalty of the most loyal to the uttermost; and we
deserve to suffer, we do indeed."
"You don't mince matters, certainly," said the civilian dryly.
"Why should anybody mince them? Why can't we admit boldly--the
C.-in-C. did it on the sly the other day--that the cartridges are
suspicious? that they leave the muzzle covered with a fat, like
tallow? Why don't we admit it was tallow at first. Why not, at any
rate, admit we are in a hole, instead of refusing to take the common
precaution of having an ammunition wagon loaded up for fear it should
be misconstrued into alarm? Is there no medium between bribing
children with lollipops and torturing them--keeping them on the
strain, under fire, as it were, for hours, watching their best friends
punished unjustly?"
"Unjustly?"
"Yes. To their minds unjustly. And you know what forcible injustice
means to children--and these are really children--simple, ignorant,
obstinate."
They had come back to cantonments again and were rapidly overtaking
the now empty tumbrils going home, for the parade was over. Further
down the road, raising a cloud of dust from their shackled feet, the
eighty-five were being marched jailward under a native escort.
"Well," said the civilian dryly, "I would give a great deal to know
what those simple babes really thought of us."
"Hate us stock and block for the time. I should," replied Jim Douglas.
They were passing the tumbrils at the moment, and one of the guard, in
sergeant's uniform, looked up in joyful recognition.
"Huzoor It is I, Soma."
The civilian looked at his companion oddly when, after a minute or two
spent in answering Soma's inquiries as to where and how the master was
to be found, Jim Douglas rode alongside once more.
"Out a bit, eh?" he said dryly.
"Very much out; but they are a queer lot. Do you remember the story of
the self-made American who was told his boast relieved the Almighty of
a great responsibility? Well, he is only responsible for one-half of
the twice-born. The other is due to humanity, to heredity, what you
will! That is what makes these high-caste men so difficult to deal
with. They are twice born. Yes! they are a queer lot."
He repeated the remark with even greater fervor twelve hours later,
when, about midnight, he started on his return ride to Delhi. For
though he had spent the whole day in listening, he had scarcely heard
a word of blame for the scene which had roused him to wrath that
morning. The sepoys had gone about their duties as if nothing had
happened; and despite the undoubted presence of a lot of loose
characters in the bazaar, there had been no disturbance. He laughed
cynically to himself at the waste of a day which would have been
better spent in horse dealing. This, however, settled it. If this
intolerable tyranny failed to rouse action there could be no immediate
danger ahead. To a big cantonment like Meerut, the biggest in Northern
India, with two thousand British troops in it, even the prospect of a
rising was not serious; at Delhi, however, where there were only
native troops, it might have been different. But now he felt that a
handful of resolute men ought to be able to hold their own anywhere
against such aimless invertebrate discontent. He felt a vague
disappointment that it should be so, that the pleasant cool of night
should be so quiet, so peaceful. They were a poor lot who could do
nothing but talk!
As he rode through the station the mess-houses were still alight, and
the gay voices of the guests who had been dining at a large bungalow,
bowered in gardens, reached his ears distinctly.
"It's the Sabbath already," said one. "Ought to be in our beds!"
"Hooray! for a Europe morning," came a more boyish one breaking into a
carol, "of all the days within the week I dearly love----"
"Shut up, Fitz!" put in a third, "you'll wake the General!"
"What's the odds? He can sleep all day. I'm sure his buggy charger
needs a rest."
"Do shut up, Fitz! The Colonel will hear you."
"I don't care. It's Scriptural. Thou and thy ox and thy ass----"
"You promised to come to evening church, Mr. Fitzgerald," interrupted
a reproachful feminine voice; "you said you would sing in the choir."
"Did I? Then I'll come. It will wake me up for dinner; besides, I
shall sit next you."
The last words came nearer, softer. Mr. Fitzgerald was evidently
riding home beside someone's carriage.
Pleasant and peaceful indeed! that clank of a sentry, here and there,
only giving a greater sense of security. Not that it was needed, for
here, beyond cantonments, the houses of the clerks and civilians lay
as peaceful, as secure. In the veranda of one of them, close to the
road, a bearer was walking up and down crooning a patient lullaby to
the restless fair-haired child in his arms.
No! truly there could be no fear. It was all talk! He set spurs to his
horse and went on through the silent night at a hand-gallop, for he
had another beast awaiting him halfway, and he wished to be in Delhi
by dawn. There was a row of tall trees bordering the road on either
side, making it dark, and through their swiftly passing boles the
level country stretched to the paler horizon like a sea. And as he
rode, he sat in judgment in his thoughts on those dead levels and the
people who lived in them.
Stagnant, featureless! A dead sea! A mere waste of waters without form
or void! Not even ready for a spirit to move over them; for if that
morning's work left them apathetic, the Moulvie of Fyzabad himself
need preach no voice of God. For _this_, surely--this sense of
injustice to others, must be the strongest motive, the surest word
to conjure with. That dull dead beat of iron upon the fetters of
others,--which he still seemed to hear,--the surest call to battle.
He paused in his thought, wondering if what he fancied he heard was
but an echo from memory or real sound! Real; undoubtedly. It was the
distant clang of the iron bells upon oxen. That meant that he must be
seven or eight miles out, halfway to the next stage, so meeting the
usual stream of night traffic toward Meerut. He passed two or three
strings of large, looming, half-seen wains without drawing bridle,
then pulled up almost involuntarily to a trot at the curiously even
tread of a drove of iron-shod oxen, and a low chanted song from behind
it. Bunjârah folk! The rough voice, the familiar rhythm of the hoofs,
reminded him of many a pleasant night-march in their company.
"A good journey, brothers!" he called in the dialect. The answer came
unerringly, dark though it was.
"The Lord keep the Huzoor safe!"
It made him smile as he remembered that of course a lone man trotting
a horse along a highroad at night was bound to be alien in a country
where horses are ambled and travelers go in twos and threes. So the
rough, broad faces would be smiling over the surprise of a sahib
knowing the Bunjârah talk; unless, indeed, it happened to be---- The
possibility of its being the _tanda_ he knew had not occurred to him
before. He pulled up and looked round. A breathless shadow was at his
stirrup, and he fancied he saw a shadow or two further behind.
"The Huzoor has mistaken the road," came Tiddu's familiar creak.
"Meerut lies to the north."
Breathless as he was, there was the pompous mystery in his voice which
always prefaced an attempt to extort money. And Jim Douglas, having no
further use for the old scoundrel, did not intend to give him any, so
he simulated an utter lack of surprise.
"Hello, Tiddu!" he said. "I had an idea it might be you. So you
recognized my voice?"
The old man laughed. "The Huzoor is mighty clever. He knows old Tiddu
has eyes. They saw the Huzoor's horse--a bay Wazeerie with a white
star none too small, and all the luck-marks--waiting at the fifteenth
milestone, by Begum-a-bad. But the Huzoor, being so clever, is not
going to ride the Wazeerie to-night. He is going to ride the Belooch
he is on back to Meerut, though the star on her forehead is too small
for safety; my thumb could cover it."
"It's a bit too late to teach me the luck-marks, Tiddu," said Jim
Douglas coolly. "You want money, you ruffian; so I suppose you have
something to sell. What is it? If it is worth anything, you can trust
me to pay, surely."
Tiddu looked round furtively. The other shadow, Jhungi or Bhungi, or
both, perhaps--the memory made Jim Douglas smile--had melted away into
the darkness. He and Tiddu were alone. The old man, even so, reached
up to whisper.
"'Tis the yellow fakir, Huzoor! He has come."
"The yellow fakir!" echoed his hearer; "who the devil is he? And why
shouldn't he come, if he likes?"
Tiddu paused, as if in sheer amaze, for a second. "The Huzoor has not
heard of the yellow fakir? The dumb fakir who brings the speech that
brings more than speech. _Wâh!_"
"Speech that is more than speech," echoed Jim Douglas angrily, then
paused in his turn; the phrase reminded him, vaguely, of his past
thoughts.
Tiddu's hand went out to the Belooch's rein; his voice lost its creak
and took a soft sing-song to which the mare seemed to come round of
her own accord.
"Yea! Speech that is more than speech, though he is dumb. Whence he
comes none know, not even I, the Many-Faced. But I can see him when he
comes, Huzoor! The others, not unless he wills to be seen. I saw him
to-night. He passed me on a white horse not half an hour agone, going
Meerutward. Did not the Huzoor see him? That is because he has learned
from old Tiddu to make others see, but not to see himself. But the
old man will teach him this also if he is in Meerut by dawn. If he is
there by dawn he will see the yellow fakir who brings the speech that
brings more than speech."
The sing-song ceased; the Belooch was stepping briskly back toward
Meerut.
"You infernal old humbug!" began Jim Douglas.
"The Huzoor does not believe, of course," remarked Tiddu, in the most
matter-of-fact creak. "But Meerut is only eight miles off. His other
horse can wait; and if he does not see the yellow fakir there is no
need to open the purse-strings."
The Englishman looked at his half-seen companion admiringly. He was
the most consummate scoundrel! His blending of mystery and purely
commercial commonplace was perfect--almost irresistible. There was no
reason why he should go on; the groom, halfway, had his usual orders
to stay till his master came. For the rest, it would be pleasant to
renew the old pleasant memory--pleasant even to renew his acquaintance
with Tiddu's guile, which struck him afresh each time he came across
it.
He slipped from his horse without a word, and was about to pull the
reins over her head so as to lead her, when Tiddu stopped short.
"Jhungi will take her to the rest-house, Huzoor, or Bhungi. It will be
safer so. I have a clean cotton quilt in the bundle, and the Huzoor
can have my shoes and rub his legs in the dust. That will do till
dawn."
He gave a jackal's cry, which was echoed from the darkness.
"Leave her so, Huzoor! She is safe," said Tiddu; and Jim Douglas, as
he obeyed, heard the mare whinny softly, as if to a foal, as a shadow
came out of the bushes. Junghi or Bhungi, no doubt.
Five minutes after, with a certain unaccountable pleasure, he found
himself walking beside a laden bullock, one arm resting on its broad
back, his feet keeping step with the remittent clang of its bell. A
strange dreamy companionship, as he knew of old. And once more the
stars seemed, after a time, to twinkle in unison with the bell, he
seemed to forget thought, to forget everything save the peaceful
stillness around, and his own unresting peace.
So, he and the laden beast went on as one living, breathing mortal,
till the little shiver of wind came, which comes with the first paling
of the sky. It was one of those yellow dawns, serene, cloudless, save
for a puff or two of thin gray vapor low down on the horizon, looking
as if it were smoke from an unseen censer swinging before the chariot
of the Sun which heads the procession of the hours. He was so absorbed
in watching the yellow light grow to those clouds no bigger than a
man's hand; so lost in the strange companionship with the laden beast
bound to the wheel of Life and Death as he was, yet asking no question
of the future, that Tiddu's hand and voice startled him.
"Huzoor!" he said. "The yellow fakir!"
They were close on the city of Meerut. The road, dipping down to cross
a depression, left a bank of yellow dust on either side. And on the
eastern one, outlined against the yellow sunrise, sat a motionless
figure. It was naked, and painted from head to foot a bright yellow
color. The closed eyes were daubed over so as to hide them utterly,
and on the forehead, as it is in the image of Siva, was painted
perpendicularly a gigantic eye, wide, set, stony. Before it in the
dust lay the beggar's bowl for alms.
"The roads part here, Huzoor," said Tiddu. "This to the city; that to
the cantonments."
As he spoke, a handsome young fellow came swaggering down the latter,
on his way evidently to riotous living in the bazaar. Suddenly he
paused, his hand went up to his eyes as if the rising sun were in
them. Then he stepped across the road and dropped a coin into the
beggar's bowl. Tiddu nodded his head gravely.
"That man is wanted, Huzoor. That is why he saw. Mayhap he is to give
the word."
"The word?" echoed Jim Douglas. "You said he was dumb?"
"I meant the trooper, Huzoor. The fakir wanted him. To give the word,
mayhap. Someone must always give it."
Jim Douglas felt an odd thrill. He had never thought of that before.
Someone, of course, must always give the word, the speech which
brought more than speech. What would it be? Something soul-stirring,
no doubt; for Humanity had a theory that an angel must trouble the
waters and so give it a righteous cause for stepping in to heal the
evil.
But what a strange knack the old man had of stirring the imagination
with ridiculous mystery! He felt vexed with himself for his own
thrill, his own thoughts. "He is a very ordinary _yogi_, I should
say," he remarked, looking toward the yellow sunrise, but the figure
was gone. He turned to Tiddu again, with real annoyance. "Well!
Whoever he is, he cannot want me. And I certainly saw him."
"I willed the Huzoor to see!" replied Tiddu with calm effrontery.
Jim Douglas laughed. The man was certainly a consummate liar; there
was never any possibility of catching him out.