She gazed at the billowing smoke as if the hope of India
were embodied in it.
"It was thus in 'fifty-seven," she said darkly. "Men began with
burnings!"
Brown eyes, behind the German, exchanged glances, for the East is
chary of words when it does not understand. The German nodded, for he
had studied history and was sure he understood.
"Sahib _hai_!" said a sudden woman's voice, and Yasmini started
as if taken by surprise. There were those in the room who knew that
when taken by surprise she never started; but they were not German.
"He is here!" she whispered; and the German showed that he felt a
crisis had arrived. He settled down to meet it like a soldier and a
man.
"Salaam!" purred Yasmini in her silveriest voice, as Ranjoor Singh
strode down the middle of the room with the dignity the West may some
day learn.
"See!" whispered Yasmini. "He trusts nobody. He brings his own guard
with him!"
By the door at which he had entered stood a trooper of D Squadron,
Outram's Own, no longer in uniform, but dressed as a Sikh servant.
The man's arms were folded on his breast. The rigidity, straight
stature, and attitude appealed to the German as the sight of sea did
to the ancient Greeks.
"Salaam!" said Ranjoor Singh.
The German noticed that his eyes glowed, but the rest of him was all
calm dignity.
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