Ha! my purse may be lean, but my 'scutcheon is clean,
And I'm backed by a dozen true men;
I've a sword to my name, and a wrist for the same;
Can a king frown fear into me, then?
IT is the privilege of emperors, and kings and princes, that--however
little real authority they have, or however much their power is
undermined by men behind the throne--they must be accorded dignity. They
must be, on the face of things, obeyed.
Inspection of the treasure finished and an hour-long mummery of rites
performed, the thirty wound their way, chanting, in single file back
again. The bronze-enforced door, that was only first of half a hundred
barriers between approach and the semi-sacred hoard, at last clanged
shut and was locked with three locks, each of whose individual keys was
in the keeping of a separate member of the three--Maharajah, Prince, and
priest. The same keys fitted every door of the maze--made passages, but
no one door would open without all three.
Speaking like an omen from the deepest shadow, the sweeper called to
Jaimihr.
“Sahib, thy palace burns! Sahib, thy prisoner runs! Haste, sahib! Call
thy men and hasten back! Thy palace is in flames--the Rangars come to--”
As a raven, disturbed into night omen-croaking, he sent forth his news
from utter blackness into nerve-strung tension. No one member of the
thirty but was on the alert for friction or sudden treachery; the were
all eyes for each other, and the croaking fell on ears strained to the
aching point. He had time to repeat his warning before one of Jaimihr's
men stepped into the darkness where he hid and dragged him out.
“Sahib, a woman came but now and brought the news. It was from the
captain of the guard. The Rangars came to take their man away. They
broke in. They burn. They loot. They--”
But Jaimihr did not wait another instant to hear the rest. To him this
seemed like the scheming of his brother. Now he imagined he could read
between the lines! That letter sent to Alwa had been misreported to
him, and had been really a call to come and free the prisoner and wreak
Rangar vengeance! He understood! But first he must save his palace, if
it could be saved. The priests must have deceived him, so he wasted no
time in arguing with them; he ran, with his guards behind him, to the
outer wall of Siva's temple where the horses waited, each with a saice
squatting at his head. The saices were sent scattering among the crowd
to give the alarm and send the rest of his contingent hurrying back;
Jaimihr and his ten drove home their spurs, and streaked, as the
frightened jackal runs when a tiger interrupts them at their worry,
hell-bent-for-leather up the unlit street.
Then Maharajah Howrah's custom-accorded dignity stood him in good stead.
It flashed across his worried brain that space had been given him by the
gods in which to think. Jaimihr--one facet of the problem and
perhaps the sharpest--would have his hands full for a while, and the
priests--wish how they would--would never dare omit the after-ritual in
Siva's temple. He--untrammelled for an hour to come--might study out a
course to take and hold with those embarrassing prisoners of his.
He turned--updrawn in regal stateliness--and intimated to the high
priest that the ceremony might proceed without him. When the priests
demurred and murmured, he informed them that he would be pleased to give
them audience when the ritual was over, and without deigning another
argument he turned through a side door into the palace.
Within ten minutes he was seated in his throne-room. One minute later
his prisoners stood in front of him, still holding each other's hands,
and the guard withdrew. The great doors opening on the marble outer hall
clanged tight, and in this room there were no carved screens through
which a hidden, rustling world might listen. There was gold-incrusted
splendor--there were glittering, hanging ornaments that far outdid the
peacocks' feathers of the canopy above the throne; but the walls were
solid, and the marble floor rang hard and true.
There was no nook or corner anywhere that could conceal a man. For a
minute, still bejewelled in his robes of state and glittering as the
diamonds in his head-dress caught the light from half a dozen hanging
lamps, the Maharajah sat and gazed at them, his chin resting on one hand
and his silk-clad elbow laid on the carved gold arm of his throne.
“Why am I troubled?” he demanded suddenly.
“You know!” said the missionary. His daughter clutched his hand tightly,
partly to reassure him, partly because she knew that a despot would be
bearded now in his gold-bespattered den, and fear gripped her.
“Maharajah-sahib, when I came here with letters from the government of
India and asked you for a mission house in which to live and work, I
told you that I came as a friend--as a respectful sympathizer. I told
you I would not incite rebellion against you, and that I would not
interfere with native custom or your authority so long as acquiescence
and obedience by me did not run counter to the overriding law of the
British Government.”
Howrah did not even move his head in token that he listened, but his
tired eyes answered.
“To that extent I promised not to interfere with your religion.”
Howrah nodded.
“Once--twice--in all nine times--I came and warned you that the practice
of suttee was and is illegal. My knowledge of Sanskrit is only slight,
but there are others of my race who have had opportunity to translate
the Sanskrit Vedas, and I have in writing what they found in them. I
warned you, when that information reached me, that your priests have
been deliberately lying to you--that the Vedas say: 'Thrice-blessed is
she who dies of a broken heart because her lord and master leaves her.'
They say nothing, absolutely nothing, about suttee or its practice,
which from the beginning has been a damnable invention of the priests.
But the practice of suttee has continued. I have warned the government
frequently, in writing, but for reasons which I do not profess to
understand they have made no move as yet. For that reason, and for no
other, I have tried to be a thorn in your side, and will continue to try
to be until this suttee ceases!”
“Why,” demanded Howrah, “since you are a foreigner with neither
influence nor right, do you stay here and behold what you cannot
change? Does a snake lie sleeping on an ant-hill? Does a woman watch the
butchering of lambs? Yet, do ant-hills cease to be, and are lambs not
butchered? Look the other way! Sleep softer in another place!”
“I am a prisoner. For months past my daughter and I have been prisoners
to all intents and purposes, and you, Maharajah-sahib, have known it
well. Now, the one man who was left to be our escort to another place is
a prisoner, too. You know that, too. And you ask me why I stay! Suppose
you answer?”
Rosemary squeezed his hand again, this time less to restrain him than
herself. She was torn between an inclination to laugh at the daring or
shiver at the indiscretion of taking to task a man whose one word could
place them at the mercy of the priests of Siva, or the mob. But
Duncan McClean, a little bowed about the shoulders, peered through
his spectacles and waited--quite unawed by all the splendor--for the
Maharajah's answer.
“Of what man do you speak?” asked Howrah, still undecided what to do
with them, and anxious above all things to disguise his thoughts. “What
man is a prisoner, and how do you know it?”
Before McClean had time to answer him, a spear haft rang on the great
teak double door. There was a pause, and the clang repeated--another
pause--a third reverberating, humming metal notice of an interruption,
and the doors swung wide. A Hindoo, salaaming low so that the expression
of his face could not be seen, called out down the long length of the
hall.
“The Alwa-sahib waits, demanding audience!” There was no change apparent
on Howrah's face. His fingers tightened on the jewelled cimeter that
protruded, silk-sashed, from his middle, but neither voice nor eyes nor
lips betrayed the least emotion. It was the McCleans whose eyes blazed
with a new-born hope, that was destined to be dashed a second later.
“Has he guards with him?”
“But ten, Maharajah-sahib.”
“Then remove these people to the place where they were, and afterward
admit him--without his guards!”
“I demand permission to speak with this Alwa-sahib!” said McClean.
“Remove them!”
Two spear-armed custodians of the door advanced. Resistance was
obviously futile. Still holding his daughter's hand, the missionary let
himself be led to the outer hall and down a corridor, where, presently,
a six-inch door shut prisoners and guards even from sound of what
transpired beyond.
Alwa, swaggering until his long spurs jingled like a bunch of keys
each time his boot-heels struck the marble floor, strode straight as
a soldier up to the raised throne dais--took no notice whatever of
the sudden slamming of the door behind him--looked knife-keenly into
Howrah's eyes--and saluted with a flourish.
“I come from bursting open Jaimihr's buzzard roost!” he intimated
mildly. “He held a man of mine. I have the man.”
Merely to speak first was insolence; but that breach of etiquette was
nothing to his manner and his voice. It appeared that he was so utterly
confident of his own prowess that he could afford to speak casually; he
did not raise his voice or emphasize a word. He was a man of his word,
relating facts, and every line of his steel-thewed anatomy showed it.
“I sent a letter to you, by horseman, with a present,” said Howrah. “I
await the answer.”
Alwa's eyes changed, and his attention stiffened. Not having been
at home, he knew nothing of the letter, but he did not choose to
acknowledge the fact. The principle that one only shares the truth with
friends is good, when taken by surprise.
“I preferred to have confirmation of the matter from the Maharajah's
lips in person, so--since I had this other matter to attend to--I
combined two visits in one trip.”
He lied, as he walked and fought, like a soldier, and the weary man who
watched him from the throne detected no false ring.
“I informed you that I had extended my protection to the two
missionaries, man and daughter.”
“You did. Also, you did well.” He tossed that piece of comfort to the
despot as a man might throw table scraps to a starveling dog! “I have
come to take away the missionaries.”
“With a guard of ten!”
It was the first admission of astonishment that either man had made.
“Are you not aware that Jaimihr, too, has eyes on the woman?”
“I am aware of it. I have shown Jaimihr how deep my fear of him lies! I
know, too, how deep the love lies between thee and thy brother, king of
Howrah! I am here to remind you that many more than ten men would
race their horses to a stand-still to answer my summons--brave men,
Maharajah-sahib--men whose blades are keen, and straightly held, and
true. They who would rally round me against Jaimihr would--”
“Would fight for me?”
“I have not yet said so.” There was a little, barely accentuated
emphasis on the one word “yet.” The Maharajah thought a minute before he
answered.
“How many mounted troopers could you raise?”
“Who knows? A thousand--three thousand--according to the soreness of the
need.”
“You have heard--I know that you have heard--what, even at this minute,
awaits the British? I know, for I have taken care to know, that a cousin
of yours--Mahommed Gunga--is interested for the British. So--so I am
interested to have word with you.”
Alwa laughed ironically.
“And the tiger asked the wolf pack where good hunting was!” he mocked.
“I and my men strike which way suits us when the hour comes.”
“My palace has many chambers in it!” hinted Howrah. “There have been men
who wondered what the light of day was like, having long ago forgotten!”
“Make me prisoner!” laughed Alwa. “Count then the hours until three
thousand blades join Jaimihr and help him grease the dungeon hinges with
thy fat!”
“Having looted Jaimihr's palace, you speak thus?”
“Having whipped a dog, I wait for the dog to lick my hand.”
“What is your purpose with these missionaries?”
“To redeem my given word.”
“And then?”
“I would be free to pledge it again.”
“To me?”
“To whom I choose.”
“I will give thee the missionaries, against thy word to fight on my side
when the hour comes.”
“Against whom?”
“The British.”
“I have no quarrel with the British, yet.”
“I will give thee the missionaries, against thy word to support me on
this throne.”
“Against whom?”
“Against all comers.”
“If I refuse, what then?”
“Jaimihr--who by this time must surely be thy very warmest
friend!--shall attack thee unmolested. Pledge thy word--take thy
missionary people--and Jaimihr must oppose thee and me combined.”
“Should Jaimihr ride after me, what then?”
“If he takes many with him, he must leave his camp unguarded, or only
weakly guarded. Then I would act. If he goes with few, how can he take
thy castle?”
“Then I have your protection against Jaimihr, and the missionaries,
against my promise to support you on the throne?”
“My word on it.”
“And mine.”
Howrah rose, stepped forward to the dais edge, and held his hand out.
“Nay!” swore Alwa, recoiling. “My word is given. I take no Hindoo's
hand!”
Howrah glared for a moment, but thought better of the hot retort that
rose to his lips. Instead he struck a silver gong, and when the doors
swung open ordered the prisoners to be produced.
“Escape through the palace-grounds,” he advised Alwa. “A man of mine
will show the way.”
“Remember!” said Alwa across his shoulder with more than royal
insolence, “I swore to help thee against Jaimihr and to support thee on
thy throne--but in nothing did I swear to be thy tool--remember!”