CHAPTER VI.
THE YELLOW FAKIR.
The days passed to weeks, the weeks to a month, after that shedding offirst blood, and no more was spilled, save that of the shedders. Twoof them were hanged, the regiment ordered to be disbanded. For therest, though causeless fires broke out in every cantonment, though aSikh 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 "_Delhidur ust_." The sky was dark indeed, there were mutterings on thehorizon; but he and others remembered how often in India, even whenrain is due, the clouds creep up and up day by day, darker and morelowering, until the yellowing crops seem to grow greener in sheer hopeof the purple pall above them. And then some unseen hand juggles thoseportentous rain-clouds into the daily darkness of night, and some dawnrises clear and dry to show, in its fierce blaze of sunlight, how theyellow has gained on the green.
So, day by day, the impression grew among the elect that the stormsignals would pass; that the best policy was to tide over the next fewmonths somehow. In pursuance of which a sepoy who ventured to drawattention to the state of feeling in one regiment was publicly told heneed expect no promotion.
But there were dissentients to this policy, apparently. Anyhow, in theend of April, Colonel Carmichael Smyth, commanding the 3d BengalCavalry at Meerut, returned from leave one evening, and orderedfifteen men from each troop to be picked out to learn the use of thenew 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 ornew. No answer was given them. They marched to the parade obedientlyat sunrise, and eighty-five of the ninety men picked from a pickedregiment for smartness and intelligence refused to take thecartridges, even from their Colonel's or their Adjutant's hand. Theirown troop officers were not present. They were at once tried by acourt-martial of native officers, some of whom came from the regimentsat Delhi; but thirty odd miles off along a broad, level driving road.They were sentenced to ten years' penal servitude, and a parade of alltroops was ordered for sunrise on the 9th of May, to put the sentenceinto force.
So the night of the 8th found Jim Douglas riding over from Delhi inthe cool to see something which, if anything could, ought to turn meretalk into action. It had brought a new sound into the air already. Theclang of cold iron upon hot, rising from the regimental smithy, wherethe fetters for the eighty-five were being forged. A cruel sound atbest, proclaiming the indubitable advantage of coolness and hardnessover glow and plasticity. Cruel indeed when the hardness andinsistency 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 gustydawn; for it takes time to forge eighty-five pairs of shackles. Rangout to where a mixed guard of the 11th and 20th Regiments of NativeInfantry were waiting round the tumbrils for the last fetter. The grayof dawn showed the rest piled on the tumbrils, showed two Englishofficers on horseback talking to each other a little way off, showedthe faces of the guard dark and lowering like the dawn itself.
"_Loh!_ sergeant _jee!_ there is the last," said the master-armorercheerfully. His task was done, at any rate.
Soma took it from him silently, and flung it on the others almostfiercely; it settled among them with a clank. His regiment, the 11th,had but newly come to Meerut, and therefore had as yet no ties ofpersonal comradeship with the eighty-five, but fetters for any sepoyswere enough to make the pulse beat full and heavy.
"The last, thank Heaven!" said the Captain, giving his bridle rein ajag. "All right forward, Jones! Then fall in, men. Quick march! We arelate enough as it is."
The disciplined feet fell in without a waver; the tumbrils moved onwith a clank and a creak.
Quick march! Soma's mind, fair reflection of the minds of all abouthim, was full of doubt. Was that indeed the last fetter, or did Rumorsay sooth when it told of others being secretly forged? Who could sayin these days, when the Huzoors themselves had taken to telling lies.Not his Huzoors as yet; his Colonels and Captains and Majors, even thelittle sahib, who laughed over his own mistakes on parade, told thetruth still. But the others lied. Lied about enlistment, aboutprize-money and leave, about those cartridges. At least, so the men inthe 20th said; the sergeant marching next to him behind the tumbrilmost of all.
"'Tis but three weeks longer, comrade," said this man suddenly in alow whisper. They were treading the dim, deserted outskirts of thecantonment bazaar, and Soma looked round nervously at the officersbehind. 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 thatwas not always, for its sepoys were a part of the Bengal army. Thatarmy which was not--as a European army is--a mere chance collection ofmen divided from each other in the beginning and end of life,associated loosely with each other in its middle, and using militaryservice as a make-shift; but, to a great extent, a guild, followingthe profession of arms by hereditary custom from the cradle to thegrave.
Quick march! A woman, early astir, peered at the little processionthrough the chink of a door, and whispered to an unseen companionbehind. 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 theneighborhood to see the show. The bazaar had been full of it thesethree days past. Even the sweepers, pariahs, out-castes, would sniggerover the misfortunes of their betters--as those two ahead weredoubtless sniggering already as they drew aside from their slave'swork of sweeping the roadway, to let the tumbrils pass. Drew asidewith mock deference, leaving scantiest room for the twice-bornfollowing them. So scant, indeed, that the outermost tip of a reedbroom, flourished in insolent salaam, touched the Rajput's sleeve. Itwas the veriest brush, no more than a fly's wing could have given; butthe half-stifled cry from Soma's lips meant murder--nothing less. Hisdisciplined 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 hepulled himself together by instinct and went on.
"Only three weeks longer, brother!" said that voice beside himmeaningly; 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 adefiling touch. He did not look round at his officers this time. Theymight hear if they chose, the future might hold what it chose. Mayhapthey had seen the insult and were laughing at it. They were not hisHuzoors; they belonged to the man at his side, who had the right totaunt him. As a matter of fact, they were discussing the chances oftheir ponies in next week's races; but Soma, lost in a great wrath, agreat fear, made it, inevitably, the topic of the whole world.
Hark! The bugle for the Rifles to form; they were to come to theparade loaded with ball cartridge. And that rumble was the Artillery,loaded also, going to take up their position. By and by theCarabineers would sweep with a clatter and a dash to form the thirdside of the hollow square, whereof the fourth was to be a mass ofhelpless dark faces, with the eighty-five martyrs and tumbrils in themiddle. Soma had seen it all in general orders, talked it over withhis dearest friend, and called it tyranny. And now the tumbrilsclanked past a little heap of smoldering ashes, that but the daybefore had been a guard-house. The lingering smoke from this last workof the incendiary drifted northward, after the fetters, making one ofthe officers cough. But he went on talking of his ponies. True type ofthe race which lives to make mistakes, dies to retrieve them. Quickmarch!
Streams of spectators bound for the show began to overtake them, readywith comments on what Soma guarded. And on the broad whit
e Mall,dividing the native half of the cantonments and the town of Meerutfrom the European portion, more than one carriage with a listless,white-faced woman in it dashed by, on its way to see the show. Theshow!
Quick march! Whatever else might be possible in the futures that wasall now, midway between the barracks of the Rifles and theCarabineers, with the church--mute symbol of the horror which, day byday, month by month, had been closing in round the people--blockingthe way in front. So they passed on to the wide northern paradeground, with that hollow square ready; three sides of it threateningweapons, the fourth of unarmed men, and in the center the eighty-fivepicked men of a picked regiment.
The knot of European spectators round the flag listened with yawns tothe stout General's exordium. The eighty-five being hopelessly,helplessly in the wrong by military law, there seemed to be no need toinsist on the fact. And the mass of dark faces standing within rangeof loaded guns and rifles, within reach of glistening sabers, did notlisten at all. Not that it mattered, since the units in that crowd hadlost the power of accepting facts. Even Soma, standing to attentionbeside the tumbrils, only felt a great sense of outrage, of wrong, ofinjustice somewhere. And there was one Englishman, at least, rigid toattention also before his disarmed, dismounted, yet loyal troop, whomust have felt it also, unless he was more than human. And this wasCaptain Craigie, who, when his men appealed to him to save them, todelay this unnecessary musketry parade, had written in his haste tothe Adjutant, "Go to Smyth at once! Go to Smyth!" and Smyth was hisColonel! 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 thewhole regiment in open mutiny in half an hour if it is not attendedto." Only that! So it is to be hoped that Captain Craigie had theofficial wigging for his unconventional appeal in his pocket as heshared his regiment's disgrace, to serve him as a warning--or aconsolation.
And now the pompous monotone being ended, the silence, coming afterthe clankings, and buglings, and trampings which had been going onsince dawn, was almost oppressive. The three sides of steel, even thefourth of faces, however, showed no sign. They stood as stone whilethe eighty-five were stripped of their uniforms. But there was more tocome. By the General's orders the leg-irons were to be riveted on oneby one; and so, once more, the sound of iron upon iron recurredmonotonously, making the silence of the intervals still moreoppressive. For the prisoners at first seemed stunned by the isolationfrom even their as yet unfettered comrades. But suddenly from a singlethroat came that cry for justice, which has a claim to a hearing, atleast, in the estimation of the people of India.
"_Dohai! Dohai! Dohai!_"
Soma gave a sort of sigh, and a faint quiver of expectation passedover 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 mustbe done; the sooner the better. But the riveting of eighty-five pairsof 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 notbeen deceived? Had they had a fair chance?
But the hammers went on as the sun climbed out of the dust-haze togleam on the sloped sabers, glint on the loaded guns, and sendglittering streaks of light along the rifles.
So the cry changed. Were their comrades cowards to stand by and seethis tyranny and raise no finger of help? Oh! curses on them! 'Tisthey who were degraded, dishonored. Curses on the Colonel who hadforced them to this! Curses on every white face!--curses on every facewhich stood by!
One, close to the General's flag, broke suddenly into passionateresentment. Jim Douglas drew out his watch, looked at it, and gatheredhis 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 hesteered through the crowd, followed by his friend, "I say it is d----dinconceivable folly and tyranny. Come on, and let's have a gallop, forGod'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. Soafter a spin due north for a mile or two they paused at the edgeof a field where the oxen were circling placidly round on thethreshing-floors and a group of women were taking advantage of thegustiness to winnow. Their bare, brown arms glistened above thefalling showers of golden grain, their unabashed smiling faces showedagainst the clouds of golden chaff drifting behind them.
Jim Douglas looked at them for a moment, returned the salaam of themen driving the oxen and forking the straw, then turned his horsetoward the cantonment again.
"It is nothing to them; that's one comfort," he said. "But they willhave to suffer for it in the end, I expect. Who will believe when thetime comes that this"--he gave a backward wave of his hand--"went onunwittingly of that?"
His companion, following his look ahead, to where, in the fardistance, a faint cloud of dust, telling of many feet, hung on thehorizon, said suddenly, as if the sight brought remembrance: "ByGeorge! Douglas, how steady the sepoys stood! I half expected a row."
"Steadier than I should," remarked the other grimly. "Well, I hopeSmyth is satisfied. To return from leave and drive your regiment intomutiny in twelve hours is a record performance."
His hearer, who was a civilian, gave a deprecating cough. "That's abit hard, surely. I happen to know that he heard while on leave somestory about a concerted rising later on. He may have done itpurposely, to force their hands."
Jim Douglas shrugged his shoulders. "Did he warn you what he was aboutto do? Did he allow time to prepare others for his private mutiny? Mydear Ridgeway, it was put on official record two months ago that anorganized scheme for resistance existed in every regiment betweenCalcutta and Peshawur; so Smyth might at least have consulted thecolonels of the other two regiments at Meerut. As it is, the businesshas strained the loyalty of the most loyal to the uttermost; and wedeserve 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--theC.-in-C. did it on the sly the other day--that the cartridges aresuspicious? that they leave the muzzle covered with a fat, liketallow? Why don't we admit it was tallow at first. Why not, at anyrate, admit we are in a hole, instead of refusing to take the commonprecaution of having an ammunition wagon loaded up for fear it shouldbe misconstrued into alarm? Is there no medium between bribingchildren with lollipops and torturing them--keeping them on thestrain, under fire, as it were, for hours, watching their best friendspunished unjustly?"
"Unjustly?"
"Yes. To their minds unjustly. And you know what forcible injusticemeans to children--and these are really children--simple, ignorant,obstinate."
They had come back to cantonments again and were rapidly overtakingthe now empty tumbrils going home, for the parade was over. Furtherdown the road, raising a cloud of dust from their shackled feet, theeighty-five were being marched jailward under a native escort.
"Well," said the civilian dryly, "I would give a great deal to knowwhat 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, insergeant's uniform, looked up in joyful recognition.
"Huzoor It is I, Soma."
The civilian looked at his companion oddly when, after a minute or twospent in answering Soma's inquiries as to where and how the master wasto 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 ofthe self-made American who was told his boast relieved the Almighty ofa great responsibility? Well, he is only responsible for one-half ofthe twice-born. The other is due to humanity, to heredity, what youw
ill! That is what makes these high-caste men so difficult to dealwith. 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. Forthough he had spent the whole day in listening, he had scarcely hearda word of blame for the scene which had roused him to wrath thatmorning. The sepoys had gone about their duties as if nothing hadhappened; and despite the undoubted presence of a lot of loosecharacters in the bazaar, there had been no disturbance. He laughedcynically to himself at the waste of a day which would have beenbetter spent in horse dealing. This, however, settled it. If thisintolerable tyranny failed to rouse action there could be no immediatedanger ahead. To a big cantonment like Meerut, the biggest in NorthernIndia, with two thousand British troops in it, even the prospect of arising was not serious; at Delhi, however, where there were onlynative troops, it might have been different. But now he felt that ahandful of resolute men ought to be able to hold their own anywhereagainst such aimless invertebrate discontent. He felt a vaguedisappointment that it should be so, that the pleasant cool of nightshould be so quiet, so peaceful. They were a poor lot who could donothing but talk!
As he rode through the station the mess-houses were still alight, andthe 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 acarol, "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 chargerneeds 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," interrupteda 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, Ishall sit next you."
The last words came nearer, softer. Mr. Fitzgerald was evidentlyriding 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, forhere, beyond cantonments, the houses of the clerks and civilians layas peaceful, as secure. In the veranda of one of them, close to theroad, a bearer was walking up and down crooning a patient lullaby tothe restless fair-haired child in his arms.
No! truly there could be no fear. It was all talk! He set spurs to hishorse and went on through the silent night at a hand-gallop, for hehad another beast awaiting him halfway, and he wished to be in Delhiby dawn. There was a row of tall trees bordering the road on eitherside, making it dark, and through their swiftly passing boles thelevel country stretched to the paler horizon like a sea. And as herode, he sat in judgment in his thoughts on those dead levels and thepeople who lived in them.
Stagnant, featureless! A dead sea! A mere waste of waters without formor void! Not even ready for a spirit to move over them; for if thatmorning's work left them apathetic, the Moulvie of Fyzabad himselfneed preach no voice of God. For _this_, surely--this sense ofinjustice to others, must be the strongest motive, the surest wordto conjure with. That dull dead beat of iron upon the fetters ofothers,--which he still seemed to hear,--the surest call to battle.
He paused in his thought, wondering if what he fancied he heard wasbut an echo from memory or real sound! Real; undoubtedly. It was thedistant clang of the iron bells upon oxen. That meant that he must beseven or eight miles out, halfway to the next stage, so meeting theusual stream of night traffic toward Meerut. He passed two or threestrings of large, looming, half-seen wains without drawing bridle,then pulled up almost involuntarily to a trot at the curiously eventread of a drove of iron-shod oxen, and a low chanted song from behindit. Bunjarah 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 cameunerringly, dark though it was.
"The Lord keep the Huzoor safe!"
It made him smile as he remembered that of course a lone man trottinga horse along a highroad at night was bound to be alien in a countrywhere horses are ambled and travelers go in twos and threes. So therough, broad faces would be smiling over the surprise of a sahibknowing the Bunjarah talk; unless, indeed, it happened to be---- Thepossibility of its being the _tanda_ he knew had not occurred to himbefore. He pulled up and looked round. A breathless shadow was at hisstirrup, 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 whichalways prefaced an attempt to extort money. And Jim Douglas, having nofurther use for the old scoundrel, did not intend to give him any, sohe simulated an utter lack of surprise.
"Hello, Tiddu!" he said. "I had an idea it might be you. So yourecognized my voice?"
The old man laughed. "The Huzoor is mighty clever. He knows old Tidduhas eyes. They saw the Huzoor's horse--a bay Wazeerie with a whitestar none too small, and all the luck-marks--waiting at the fifteenthmilestone, by Begum-a-bad. But the Huzoor, being so clever, is notgoing to ride the Wazeerie to-night. He is going to ride the Beloochhe is on back to Meerut, though the star on her forehead is too smallfor safety; my thumb could cover it."
"It's a bit too late to teach me the luck-marks, Tiddu," said JimDouglas coolly. "You want money, you ruffian; so I suppose you havesomething to sell. What is it? If it is worth anything, you can trustme to pay, surely."
Tiddu looked round furtively. The other shadow, Jhungi or Bhungi, orboth, perhaps--the memory made Jim Douglas smile--had melted away intothe darkness. He and Tiddu were alone. The old man, even so, reachedup to whisper.
"'Tis the yellow fakir, Huzoor! He has come."
"The yellow fakir!" echoed his hearer; "who the devil is he? And whyshouldn't he come, if he likes?"
Tiddu paused, as if in sheer amaze, for a second. "The Huzoor has notheard of the yellow fakir? The dumb fakir who brings the speech thatbrings more than speech. _Wah!_"
"Speech that is more than speech," echoed Jim Douglas angrily, thenpaused in his turn; the phrase reminded him, vaguely, of his pastthoughts.
Tiddu's hand went out to the Belooch's rein; his voice lost its creakand took a soft sing-song to which the mare seemed to come round ofher own accord.
"Yea! Speech that is more than speech, though he is dumb. Whence hecomes none know, not even I, the Many-Faced. But I can see him when hecomes, Huzoor! The others, not unless he wills to be seen. I saw himto-night. He passed me on a white horse not half an hour agone, goingMeerutward. Did not the Huzoor see him? That is because he has learnedfrom old Tiddu to make others see, but not to see himself. But theold man will teach him this also if he is in Meerut by dawn. If he isthere by dawn he will see the yellow fakir who brings the speech thatbrings more than speech."
The sing-song ceased; the Belooch was stepping briskly back towardMeerut.
"You infernal old humbug!" began Jim Douglas.
"The Huzoor does not believe, of course," remarked Tiddu, in the mostmatter-of-fact creak. "But Meerut is only eight miles off. His otherhorse can wait; and if he does not see the yellow fakir there is noneed to open the purse-strings."
The Englishman looked at his half-seen companion admiringly. He wasthe most consummate scoundrel! His blending of mystery and purelycommercial commonplace was perfect--almost irresistible. There was noreason why he should go on; the groom, halfway, had his usual ordersto stay till his master came. For the rest, it would be pleasant torenew the old pleasant memory--pleasant even to renew his acquaintancewith Tiddu's guile, which struck him afresh each time he came acrossit.
He slipped from his horse
without a word, and was about to pull thereins 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 besafer so. I have a clean cotton quilt in the bundle, and the Huzoorcan have my shoes and rub his legs in the dust. That will do tilldawn."
He gave a jackal's cry, which was echoed from the darkness.
"Leave her so, Huzoor! She is safe," said Tiddu; and Jim Douglas, ashe obeyed, heard the mare whinny softly, as if to a foal, as a shadowcame out of the bushes. Junghi or Bhungi, no doubt.
Five minutes after, with a certain unaccountable pleasure, he foundhimself walking beside a laden bullock, one arm resting on its broadback, his feet keeping step with the remittent clang of its bell. Astrange dreamy companionship, as he knew of old. And once more thestars seemed, after a time, to twinkle in unison with the bell, heseemed to forget thought, to forget everything save the peacefulstillness 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 palingof the sky. It was one of those yellow dawns, serene, cloudless, savefor a puff or two of thin gray vapor low down on the horizon, lookingas if it were smoke from an unseen censer swinging before the chariotof the Sun which heads the procession of the hours. He was so absorbedin watching the yellow light grow to those clouds no bigger than aman's hand; so lost in the strange companionship with the laden beastbound to the wheel of Life and Death as he was, yet asking no questionof 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 crossa depression, left a bank of yellow dust on either side. And on theeastern one, outlined against the yellow sunrise, sat a motionlessfigure. It was naked, and painted from head to foot a bright yellowcolor. 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 paintedperpendicularly a gigantic eye, wide, set, stony. Before it in thedust lay the beggar's bowl for alms.
"The roads part here, Huzoor," said Tiddu. "This to the city; that tothe cantonments."
As he spoke, a handsome young fellow came swaggering down the latter,on his way evidently to riotous living in the bazaar. Suddenly hepaused, his hand went up to his eyes as if the rising sun were inthem. Then he stepped across the road and dropped a coin into thebeggar's bowl. Tiddu nodded his head gravely.
"That man is wanted, Huzoor. That is why he saw. Mayhap he is to givethe 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 whichbrought more than speech. What would it be? Something soul-stirring,no doubt; for Humanity had a theory that an angel must trouble thewaters and so give it a righteous cause for stepping in to heal theevil.
But what a strange knack the old man had of stirring the imaginationwith ridiculous mystery! He felt vexed with himself for his ownthrill, his own thoughts. "He is a very ordinary _yogi_, I shouldsay," he remarked, looking toward the yellow sunrise, but the figurewas 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; therewas never any possibility of catching him out.