CHAPTER XXI
SHERE ALI IS CLAIMED BY CHILTISTAN
While these thoughts were seething in his mind, while the excitement wasstill at its height, the cries still at their loudest, Shere All heard aquiet penetrating voice speak in his ear. And the voice spoke in Pushtu.
The mere sound of the language struck upon Shere Ali's senses at thatmoment of exultation with a strange effect. He thrilled to it from headto foot. He heard it with a feeling of joy. And then he took note of thespoken words.
"The man who wrote to your Highness from Calcutta waits outside thedoors. As you stand under the gas lamps, take your handkerchief from yourpocket if you wish to speak with him."
Shere Ali turned back from the ropes. But the spectators were alreadymoving from their chairs to the steps which led from the stage to theauditorium. There was a crowd about those steps, and Shere Ali could notdistinguish among it the man who was likely to have whispered in his ear.All seemed bent upon their own business, and that business was to escapefrom the close heat-laden air of the building as quickly as might be.
Shere Ali stood alone and pondered upon the words.
The man who had written to him from Calcutta! That was the man who hadsent the anonymous letter which had caused him one day to pass throughthe Delhi Gate of Lahore. A money-lender at Calcutta, but a countrymanfrom Chiltistan. So he had gathered from Safdar Khan, while heaping scornupon the message.
But now, and on this night of all nights, Shere Ali was in a mood tolisten. There were intrigues on foot--there were always intrigues onfoot. But to-night he would weigh those intrigues. He went out from themusic-hall, and under the white glare of the electric lamps above thedoor he stood for a moment in full view. Then he deliberately took hishandkerchief from his pocket. From the opposite side of the road, a manin native dress, wearing a thick dark cloak over his white shirt andpyjamas, stepped forward. Shere Ali advanced to meet him.
"Huzoor, huzoor," said the man, bending low, and he raised Shere Ali'shand and pressed his forehead upon it, in sign of loyalty.
"You wish to speak to me?" said Shere Ali.
"If your Highness will deign to follow. I am Ahmed Ismail. Your Highnesshas heard of me, no doubt."
Shere Ali did not so much as smile, nor did he deny the statement. Henodded gravely. After all, vanity was not the prerogative of his peoplealone in all the world.
"Yes," he said, "I will follow."
Ahmed Ismail crossed the road once more out of the lights into theshadows, and walked on, keeping close to the lines of houses. Shere Alifollowed upon his heels. But these two were not alone to take that road.A third man, a Bengali, bespectacled, and in appearance most respectable,came down the steps of the musichall, a second after Shere Ali hadcrossed the road. He, too, had been a witness of the prize-fight. Hehurried after Shere Ali and caught him up.
"Very good fight, sir," he said. "Would Prince of Chiltistan like toutter some few welcome words to great Indian public on extraordinaryskill of respective pugilists? I am full-fledged reporter of _BandeMataram_, great Nationalist paper."
He drew out a note-book and a pencil as he spoke. Ahmed Ismail stoppedand turned back towards the two men. The Babu looked once, and only once,at the money-lender. Then he stood waiting for Shere Ali's answer.
"No, I have nothing to say," said Shere Ali civilly. "Good-night," and hewalked on.
"Great disappointment for Indian public," said the Bengali. "Prince ofChiltistan will say nothing. I make first-class leading article onreticence of Indian Prince in presence of high-class spectacular events.Good-night, sir," and the Babu shut up his book and fell back.
Shere Ali followed upon the heels of Ahmed Ismail. The money-lenderwalked down the street to the Maidan, and then turned to the left. TheBabu, on the other hand, hailed a third-class gharry and, ascending intoit gave the driver some whispered instructions.
The gharry drove on past the Bengal Club, and came, at length, to thenative town. At the corner of a street the Babu descended, paid thedriver, and dismissed him.
"I will walk the rest of the way," he said. "My home is quite near and alittle exercise is good. I have large varicose veins in the legs, or Ishould have tramped hand and foot all the way."
He walked slowly until the driver had turned his gharry and was drivingback. Then, for a man afflicted with varicose veins the Babu displayedamazing agility. He ran through the silent and deserted street until hecame to a turning. The lane which ran into the main road was a blindalley. Mean hovels and shuttered booths flanked it, but at the end a tallhouse stood. The Babu looked about him and perceived a cart standing inthe lane. He advanced to it and looked in.
"This is obvious place for satisfactory concealment," he said, as withsome difficulty he clambered in. Over the edge of the cart he kept watch.In a while he heard the sound of a man walking. The man was certainly atsome distance from the turning, but the Babu's head went down at once.The man whose footsteps he heard was wearing boots, but there would beone walking in front of that man who was wearing slippers--Ahmed Ismail.
Ahmed Ismail, indeed, turned an instant afterwards into the lane, passedthe cart and walked up to the door of the big house. There he halted, andShere Ali joined him.
"The gift was understood, your Highness," he said. "The message was sentfrom end to end of Chiltistan."
"What gift?" asked Shere Ali, in genuine surprise.
"Your Highness has forgotten? The melons and the bags of grain."
Shere Ali was silent for a few moments. Then he said:
"And how was the gift interpreted?"
Ahmed Ismail smiled in the darkness.
"There are wise men in Chiltistan, and they found the riddle easy toread. The melons were the infidels which would be cut to pieces, even asa knife cuts a melon. The grain was the army of the faithful."
Again Shere Ali was silent. He stood with his eyes upon his companion.
"Thus they understand my gift to the Mullah?" he said at length.
"Thus they understood it," said Ahmed Ismail. "Were they wrong?" andsince Shere Ali paused before he answered, Ahmed repeated the question,holding the while the key of his door between his fingers.
"Were they wrong, your Highness?"
"No," said Shere Ali firmly. "They were right."
Ahmed Ismail put the key into the lock. The bolt shot back with a gratingsound, the door opened upon blackness.
"Will your Highness deign to enter?" he said, standing aside.
"Yes," said Shere Ali, and he passed in. His own people, his own country,had claimed and obtained him.