And the council was beginning to grow uneasy. How long could he hold
them in leash?
What a woman! As magnificent as the daughter of Firoz, shah of Delhi.
Fear she knew not. At one moment he loved her with his whole soul, at
another he hated her, longed to get her into his hands again, to wreak
his vengeance upon her for the humiliation she had by wit and courage
heaped upon him. "I am ready!" He could hear it yet. When they had
led her away to the ordeals--"I am ready!" A woman, and not afraid to
die!
Money! How to get it! He could not plunge his hand into the treasury;
there were too many about, too many tongues. But Colonel Hare knew
where the silver basket lay hidden, heaped with gold and precious
stones; and torture could not wring the hiding-place from him. May he
be damned to the nethermost hell! Let him, Durga Ram, but bury his
lean hands in that treasure, and Daraka swallow Allaha and all its
kings! Rubies and pearls and emeralds, and a far country to idle in,
to be feted in, to be fawned upon for his riches!
And Ramabai and his wife, Pundita, let them beware; let them remain
wisely in their house and meddle not with affairs of state.
"A thousand rupees!"
Umballa looked up with a start. Unconsciously he had wandered into the
slave mart. He shrugged and would have passed on but for the strange,
unusual figure standing on the platform. A golden haired woman with
neck and arms like Chinese bronze and dressed in a skirt of grass! He
paused.
"Two thousand rupees!"
"What!" jeered the professional seller. "For an houri from paradise?
O ye of weak hearts, what is this I hear? Two thousand rupees?--for an
houri fit to dwell in the zenana of heaven!"
A keen-eyed Mohammedan edged closer to the platform. He stared and
sucked in his breath. He found himself pulled two ways. He had no
money, but he had knowledge.
"Who sells this maiden?" he asked.
"Mohammed Ghori."
"Which is he?"
"He squats there."
The Mohammedan stopped and touched the old mahout on the shoulder.
"Call off this sale, and my master will make you rich."
The old sinner gingerly felt of the speaker's cotton garb. "Ah! 'My
master' must be rich to dress thee in cotton. Where is your gold?
Bid," satirically.
"Two thousand rupees!" shouted the professional seller.
"I have no gold, but my master will give 10,000 rupees for yonder maid.
Quick! Old fool, be quick!"
"Begone, thou beggar!"
And the old man spat.
"Mem-sahib," the Mohammedan called out in English, "do not look toward
me, or all will be lost. I am Ali, Bruce Sahib's chief mahout; and we
have believed you dead! Take care! I go to inform Ahmed. Bruce Sahib
has not returned."