Ah, they talked about it that night in the surging bazaars, in the
palace, wherever two persons came together: how the white hunter had
appeared from nowhere, rushed toward the trap as the tiger approached,
entered and dropped the door, blazed away at the beast, who turned tail
and limped off into the jungle. Ai! It was a sight for eyes. They
could laugh behind Umballa's back, the gutter born, the iron heeled
upstart; they could riddle (confidentially) the council with rude jests.
The law was the law; and none, not even the priests in their shaven polls
and yellow robes, might slip beyond the law as it read. The first ordeal
was over. Nor, as the law read, could they lay hands upon this brave
young man. Ai! it was good. Umballa must look elsewhere for his chief
wife; the Mem-sahib would not adorn his zenana. It was more than good,
for now there would be a second ordeal; more amusement, perhaps another
miracle. True, they had taken away the pistols of the white Sahib, but
he had his hands.
"Thank you," Kathlyn had said. "Somehow I knew you would come." And
what she had seen in his eyes had made her tremble visibly for the first
time that day.
She was conducted back to the palace. The populace howled and cheered
about her palanquin to the very gates. Not in many a big rain had they
had such excitement.
The fury in Umballa's heart might have disquieted Bruce had he known of
its existence.
Kathlyn, arriving in her chamber, flung herself down upon her cushions
and lay there like one dead, nor would she be comforted by the worshiping
Pundita. Bruce had saved her this time, but it was not possible that he
could repeat the feat.
Having convinced Umballa and the council that she would not marry her
persecutor, the council announced to the populace that on the next fete
day the queen would confront the lions in the elephant arena. What could
one man do against such odds? Lions brought from the far Nubian deserts,
fierce, untamable.
That night there was a conference between Bruce, Ahmed and Ramabai.
"They have taken my guns away, and God knows I can't do the impossible.
Where the devil were your camels, Ahmed?"
"Umballa has his spies, Ramabai," said Ahmed, smiling, as he got into his
bheestee rags, which Ramabai had surrendered willingly enough: "Ramabai,
thou conspirator, what about the powder mines you and your friends hid
when the late king signified that he was inclined toward British
protectorate? Eh? What about the republic thou hadst dreams of? Poor
fool! It is in our blood to be ruled by kings, oppressed; we should not
know what to do with absolute freedom. There! Fear not. Why should I
betray thee? The mines. The arena is of wood."