They began to
crowd closer, to squat cross-legged on the floor, in circles one
outside the other, until the European three became the center of
three rings of men who stared at them with owls' solemnity.
Then Yasmini ceased dancing. Then one of the Europeans drew his
watch out; and he had to show it to the other two before he could
convince them that they had sat for two hours without wanting to do
anything but watch and listen.
"So _wass!_" said one of them--the drunken.
_"Du lieber Gott--schon halb zwolf!"_ said the second.
The third man made no remark at all. He was watching Ranjoor Singh.
The risaldar--major had left the divan by the end wall and walked--
all grim straight lines in contrast to Yasmini's curves--to a spot
directly facing the three Europeans; and it seemed there sat a
hillman on the piece of floor he coveted.
"Get up!" he commanded. "Make room!"
The hillman did not budge, for an Afridi pretends to feel for a Sikh
the scorn that a Sikh feels truly for Afridis. The flat of Ranjoor
Singh's foot came to his assistance, and the hillman budged. In an
instant he was on his feet, with a lightning right hand reaching for
his knife.
But Yasmini allows no butcher's work on her premises, and her words
within those walls are law, since no man knows who is on whose side.
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