Captain Swinton had told his bearer to call him early, his life in India
having taught him the full value of the glorious early morning for a
ride. Lord Victor had balked at the idea of a grey-dawn pleasure trip on
horseback, and Swinton had not pressed the point, for he very much
desired to make a little tour of inspection off his own bat, a
contemplative ride free from the inane comments of his young charge.
At the first soft drawn-out "Sah-h-i-b!" of his bearer, the captain was
up with soldierly precision. His eyes lighted with pleasure when he saw
the saddle horse that had been provided for him from the maharajah's
stable. He was a fine, upstanding brown Arab, the eyes full and set
wide. When Swinton patted the velvet muzzle the Arab gave a little sigh
of satisfaction, expressing content; he liked to carry men who loved
horses.
The bearer, officiously solicitous, had rubbed his cloth over the saddle
and bridle reins, and, examining the result, said: "Huzoor, you have
clean leathers; it is well. Also the steed has lucky marks and his name
is Shabaz."
Shabaz broke into a free-swinging canter as the captain took the road
that stretched, like a red ribbon laid on a carpet of green, toward the
hill, whereon, high up, gleamed a flat pearl, the palace of Prince
Ananda.
On the hillside was a delicate tracery of waving bamboos, through which
peeped cliffs of various hues--rose-coloured, ebon black, pearl grey,
vermilion red; and over all was a purple haze where the golden shafts of
the rising sun shot through lazy-rising vapours of the moist plain. The
cliffs resembled castle walls rising from the buried city, mushrooming
themselves into sudden arrogance. To the north a river wound its sinuous
way through plains of sand, a silver serpent creeping over a cloth of
gold. Back from either side of the river lay patches of wheat and
barley, their jade green and golden bronze holding of grain suggesting
gigantic plates of metal set out in the morning sun to dry.
To the westward of the river lay Darpore City, looking like a box of
scattered toys. Beyond the white palace the sal-covered hills lay heavy,
mysterious, sombre, as if in rebuke to the eastern sky palpitating with
the radiancy that flooded it from the great golden ball of heat that
swept upward in regal majesty.
Yawning caves studding a ravine which cut its climbing way up the
hillside shattered the poetic spell which had driven from Swinton's mind
his real object in that solitary ride. The cave mouths suggested
entrances to military underground passages. He was certain that the
pearllike palace was a place of intrigue. The contour of the great hill
conveyed the impression of a stronghold--a mighty fort, easy of defence.
Indeed, as Swinton knew, that was what it had been. Its history, the
story of Fort Kargez, was in the India office, and Prince Ananda must
have lied the night before when he said he did not know what city lay
beneath the palace.
Fort Kargez had been the stronghold of Joghendra Bahi, a Hindu rajah,
when the Pathan emperor, Sher Ghaz, had swept through India to the
undulating plains of Darpore.
Gazing at the formidable hill, Swinton chuckled over the wily Pathan's
manner of capturing Fort Kargez by diplomacy. He had made friends with
Rajah Bahi, asking the favour of leaving his harem and vast store of
jewels in that gentleman's safe custody till his return from conquering
Bengal.
Such a bait naturally appealed to the covetous Hindu. But the palanquins
that carried the fair maids and the wealth of jewels had also hidden
within enough men to hold the gate while a horde of Pathans rushed the
fort. But Rajah Bahi and many of his soldiers had escaped to the
underground passages, and either by accident or design--for the vaults
had been mined--they were blown up, turning the fort over like a
pancake, burying the Pathan soldiers and the vast loot of gold and
jewels. Then the jungle crept in, as it always does, and smothered the
jagged surface beneath which lay the ruined walls. Many of the
artificial lakes remained; they were just without the fort.
Climbing the zigzag roadway, Swinton fell to wondering if all the
prince's talk of a desire for removal from the bustle of Darpore City
was simply a blind; if his real object weren't a systematic exploration
for the vast store of wealth in the buried city and also the preparation
of a rebel stronghold.
On the plateau, he took a road that forked to the right, leading between
hedges of swordlike aloes to the palace gardens. At a gateway in a brick
wall, his guide dropped to his haunches, saying: "There is but one gate,
sahib; I will wait here."
Turning a corner of an oleander-bordered path, Swinton suddenly pulled
Shabaz to a halt. Twenty yards away a girl sat a grey stallion, the
poise of her head suggesting that she had heard the beat of his horse's
hoofs. A ripple of wind carried the scent of the Arab to the grey
stallion; he arched his tapering neck and swung his head, the eyes
gleaming with a desire for combat. A small gloved hand, with a quick
slip of the rein, laid the curb chain against his jaw; a spur raked his
flank, and, springing from its touch, he disappeared around a turn.
Piqued, his query of the night before, "Who was the woman?" recalled to
his mind, Swinton followed the large hoofprints of the grey. They led to
within six feet of the garden wall, where they suddenly vanished; they
led neither to the right nor to the left of the sweeping path.
"Good old land of mystery!" the captain muttered as, slipping from his
saddle, he read out the enigma. Back, the greater stride told that the
grey had gone to a rushing gallop. Here, six feet from the wall, he had
taken off in a mighty leap; two holes cupped from the roadbed by the
push of his hind feet told this tale. Swinton could just chin the
wall--and he was a tall man. On the far side was a fern-covered terrace
that fell away three feet to a roadbed, and just beyond the road the rim
of a void a hundred feet deep showed.
"No end of nerve; she almost deserves to preserve her incognito,"
Captain Swinton thought, remounting Shabaz.
On his way out the captain passed a heavy iron gate that connected the
garden with the palace. And from beyond was now coming a babel of animal
voices from the zoo. Mingling with the soft perfume of roses a strong
odour of cooking curry reminded him of breakfast. At the gate he picked
up his man, and, riding leisurely along, sought to learn from that
wizened old Hindu the horsewoman's name.
There came a keen look of cautious concealment into the man's little
eyes as he answered: "Sahib, the lady I know not, neither is it of
profit for one of my labour to converse about fine people, but as to the
grey stallion we in the stables allude to him as Sheitan."
"He jumps well, Radha."
"Ha, sahib; all that he does is performed with strength, even when he
tore an arm out of Stoll Sahib--he of the Indigo."
"How comes the lady to ride such an evil horse?" the captain asked.
"The stallion's name is Djalma, sahib, which means the favour of sacred
Kuda, but to the mem-sahib he comes from the maharani's stable, which is
a different thing."
"To bring her harm, even as Stoll Sahib came by it?"
But Radha parried this talk of cause leading to effect by speech
relating to Djalma. "It might be that the matter of Stoll Sahib's hand
was but an accident--I know not; but of evil omens, as twisted in the
hair of a horse, we horsemen of repute all know. The grey stallion
carries three marks of ill favour. Beneath the saddle he has the shadow
maker, and that means gloom for his owner; at the knee is a curl, with
the tail of the curl running down to the fetlock--that means the
withdrawal of the peg. That is to say, sahib, that his owner's rope pegs
will have to be knocked out for lack of horses to tie to them."
"He seems a bad lot, Radha," Swinton remarked as the attendant stopped
to pick a thorn from his foot.
"Worst of all," the little man added dolefully, "is the wall eye."
"Has the grey stallion that?"
A smile of satisfaction wreathed the puckered lips of Radha. "The sahib
knows, and does the sahib remember the proverb?"
"That not one will be left alive in your house if you possess a horse
with one white eye?" the captain said.
They now slipped from the hill road to the plain, and the Arab broke
into a swinging canter.
The captain's breakfast was waiting, so was Gilfain and also--which
caused him to swear as he slipped from the saddle--was Baboo Lall Mohun
Dass.
In the genial morning sun the baboo looked more heroic in his spotless
muslin and embroidered velvet cap sitting jauntily atop his heavy,
black, well-oiled hair.
"Wanting to speak to master, sar, this morning," he said. "After
debauch, in the morning wisdom smiles like benign god. I am showing to
master last night property of maharajah, and he is terrible old boy for
raising hell; I am hear the sahib will make call of honour, and, sar, I
am beseeching you will not confide to his highness them peccadillos."
"All right, baboo. But excuse me; I've got to have a tub and breakfast."
When Lord Victor and Captain Swinton had finished their breakfast a huge
barouche of archaic structure, drawn by a pair of gaunt Waler horses,
arrived to take them to the maharajah. On the box seat were two liveried
coachmen, while behind rode the syces.
As they rolled along the red road through the cantonments they overtook
Baboo Mohun Dass plugging along in an elephantine strut beneath a gaudy
green umbrella. When they drew abreast he salaamed and said: "Masters,
kind gentlemen!" The coachman drew the horses to a walk, and the baboo,
keeping pace, asked: "Will you, kind gentlemans, if you see a vehicle,
please send to meet me? I have commanded that one be sent for me, but a
humbugging fellow betray my interest, so I am pedestrian." His big,
bovine eyes rested hungrily on the capacious, leather-cushioned seat
alluringly vacant in the chariot.
"All right, baboo!" Then Swinton raised his eyes to the coachman, who
was looking over his shoulder, and ordered: "Hurry!"
The big-framed, alien horses, always tired in that climate, were whipped
up, and a rising cloud of dust hid the carriage from Baboo Dass' glaring
eyes.
Indignation drove a shower of perspiration through the baboo's greasy
pores. He turned toward the sal-covered hills, and in loud resentment
appealed to Kali, the dispenser of cholera, beseeching the goddess to
punish the sahibs.
Baboo Dass was startled by a voice, a soft, feminine voice, that issued
from a carriage that had approached unheard. He deserted the evil
goddess and turned to the woman in the carriage. She was attractive;
many gold bangles graced her slender arms; on her fingers were rings
that held in setting divers stones, even diamonds. A large mirror ring
indicated that she was coquettish, and yet a certain modesty told that
she was not from Amritsar Bazaar.
Her voice had asked: "What illness troubles you, baboo?"
Now, as he salaamed, she offered him a ride into Darpore town.
Baboo Dass climbed into the vehicle, expressing his gratitude,
explaining, as they bowled along, that he was a man of affairs, having
business with the maharajah that morning, and that by mischance he had
been forced to walk. In reciprocal confidence the lady explained she was
the wife of a Marwari banker.
The baboo's resentment welled up afresh; also a little boasting might
impress his pleasing companion. "To think, lady," he said, "last night
we are roystering together, those two sahibs, who are lords, and me, who
am a man of importance in Hamilton Company, and now they are coming in
the maharajah's carriage and they pass me as if I am some low-caste
fellow in their own country that works with his hands."
"That is the way of the foreigners," the Marwari woman answered softly;
"they will put the yoke on your neck and say 'Thank you.' On their lips
are the words of friendship, in their hand is the knotted whip."
"When they see I am important man with his highness they will not feel
so elegant."
"I will take you to the drawbridge where it crosses the moat to the gate
in the big wall," the Marwari woman offered.
"It is undignified for a man of my importance to approach the palace on
foot," declared Baboo Dass.
The Marwari woman smiled, her stained red lips parting mischievously.
"But also, Baboo Dass, it would not be proper for you to arrive with me.
I have a way to arrange it that will save both our good standing. We
will drive to my place of banking, then my carriage will take you to the
palace, and the sahibs will not see you walk in."
The baboo was delighted. In India opulent people did not call on rajahs
afoot; also the carriage was a prosperous-looking vehicle, and the two
country-bred horses were well fed.
As they neared the palace, that lay hidden behind massive brick walls,
they left the main thoroughfare, and, after divers turnings, entered a
street so narrow that their vehicle passed the mud-walled shops with
difficulty. A sharp turn, and the carriage stopped in a little court.
Four burly natives rose up from the mud step on which they had been
sitting, and, at a word from the Marwari woman, seized her companion.
The baboo struggled and sought to cry out for help, but the lady's soft
hand deftly twisted a handkerchief into his mouth, hushing his clamour.
He was torn from the carriage none too gently, hustled through an open
door, and clapped into a chair, where he was firmly held by his four
attendants.
A little old man seized a cup wherein was a piece of soap, and with his
brush beat up a lather, saying softly: "Do not struggle, baboo; it is
for your good. These fevers burn the liver and affect the brain; in no
time I will have taken the accursed fever from your head."
Then with a scissors he nimbly clipped the profuse locks of the baboo's
head, the latter, having managed to spit out the handkerchief,
protesting that it was an outrage, that he was a jewel merchant from
Calcutta waiting upon the rajah.
"Yes, yes," the little man told the four stalwarts as he whipped at the
lather, "it is even so; his wife spoke of a strange fancy he was
possessed of that he was a dealer in jewels, whereas he is but a clerk.
And no wonder, with a fever in the blood and with a crown of hair such
as a mountain sheep wears."
Then he lathered the scalp, stroked the razor on the skin of his
forearm, and proceeded to scrape.
The baboo yelled and struggled; the razor took a nick out of his scalp.
At last the blue-grey poll, bearing many red nicks, was clear of hair,
and he was released. His first thought was of the jewel. His searching
palm fell flat against his chest; it was gone! With a cry of despair he
made for the door; the carriage had vanished.
Whirling about, he accused his captors of the theft. The barber, to
soothe the fever-demented one, said: "Of a surety, baboo, your wife has
taken the jewel because it was an evil stone that but increased the
fever that was in your blood."
The plot dawned upon Baboo Dass. He flung out the door and made for the
palace.
"It does not matter," the barber said; "his wife is a woman of business,
and this morning when she spoke of bringing the sick man she paid in
advance." He put in the palm of each of the four a rupee, adding: "The
afflicted man will now go home and sleep, his head being cooler, and the
fever will go out of his blood, for so the doctor told his wife, who is
a woman of method."