Thou shalt have revenge! Come again to--morrow. Nay, go now, I
would sleep when I have finished laughing. Aye--the gods love
Yasmini!"
The West Wind blows through the Ajmere Gate
And whispers low (Oh, listen ye!),
"The fed wolf curls by his drowsy mate
In a tight--trod earth; but the lean wolves wait,
And the hunger gnaws!" (Oh, listen ye!)
"Can fed wolves fight? But yestere'en
Their eyes were bright, their fangs were clean;
They viewed, they took but yestere'en,"
(Oh, listen, wise heads, listen ye!)
"Because they fed, is blood less red,
Or fangs less sharp, or hunger dead?"
(Look well to the loot, and listen ye!)
YASMINI'S SONG
CHAPTER III
The colonel of Outram's Own dropped into a club where he was only
one, and not the greatest, of many men entitled to respect. There
were three men talking by a window, their voices drowned by the din
of rain on the veranda roof, each of whom nodded to him. He chose,
however, a solitary chair, for, though subalterns do not believe it,
a colonel has exactly that diffidence about approaching senior
civilians which a subaltern ought to feel.
In a moment all that was visible of him from the door was a pair of
brown riding-boots, very much fore-shortened, resting on the long arm
of a cane chair, and two sets of wonderfully modeled fingers that
held up a newspaper.
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