"Aye, I know the
tale! It is the eve of war, and he commands a squadron, and there is
need of him. Is it not so? Yet the house that he entered burns. And
the hillman's knife is long and keen, sahib! Beg for him!"
Kirby had risen to his feet, and Warrington followed suit. Kirby's
self-possession was returning and she must have known it; perhaps she
even intended that it should. But she lay curled on the divan,
laughing up at him, and perfectly unimpressed by his recovered dignity.
"If he's alive, and you know where he is," said Kirby, "I will pay
you your price. Name it!"
"Beg for him! There is no other price. The House-of-the-Eight-Half-
brothers burns! Beg for him!"
Now, the colonel of a regiment of light cavalry is so little given
to beg for things that the word beg has almost lapsed out of his
vocabulary from desuetude.
"I beg you to tell me where he is," he said stiffly, and she clapped
her hands and laughed with such delight that he blushed to his ears
again.
"I have had a prince on his knees to me, and many a priest," she
chuckled, "aye, and many a soldier--but never yet a British colonel
sahib. Kneel and beg!"
"Why--what--what d'ye mean?" demanded Kirby.
"Is his honor not your honor? I have heard it said. Then beg,
Colonel sahib, on your knees--on those stiff British knees--beg for
the honor of Ranjoor Singh!"
"D'you mean--d'you mean--?"
"Beg for his honor, and beg for his life, on your knees, Colonel
sahib!"
"I could look the other way, sir," whispered Warrington, for the
regiment's need was very real.
Pages:
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97