She had come perilously near to obedience on
this occasion, and it had been nothing less than luck that put
Ranjoor Singh into her hands, luck being the pet name of India's
kindest god. Ranjoor Singh was needed in the instant when he came to
bring the German back to earth and a due sense of proportion.
The Sikh had a rage in his heart that the German mistook for zeal
and native ferocity; his manners became so brusk under the stress of
it that they might almost have been Prussian, and, met with its own
reflection, that kind of insolence grows limp.
Having agreed to lie, Ranjoor Singh lied with such audacity and so
much skill that it would have needed Yasmini to dare disbelieve him.
The German sat in state near Yasmini's great window and received,
one after another, liars by the dozen from the hills where lies are
current coin. Some of them had listened to his lectures, and some had
learned of them at second hand; every man of them had received his
cue from Yasmini. There was too much unanimity among them; they
wanted too little and agreed too readily to what the German had to
say; he was growing almost suspicious toward half-past ten, when
Ranjoor Singh came in.
There was no trooper behind him this time, for the man had been sent
to watch for the regiment's departure, and to pounce then on Bagh,
the charger, and take him away to safety.
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