Caste | Page 3

son had been
struck with a glove it changed to the face of a devil; the lips thinned,
and shrinking, left the strong white teeth bare in a wolf's snarl. Under
the black eyebrows the eyes gleamed like fire-lit amber; the
thin-chiselled nostrils spread and through them the palpitating breath
rasped a whistling note of suppressed passion.
"Sirdar," he said, "never call me Nana Sahib again. The English call me
that, but I wait--must wait; I smile and suffer. I am Dandhu Panth, a
Brahmin. The English so loved me that they tried to make an
Englishman of me, but, by Brahm! they taught me hate, which is their
lot till the sea swallows the last of the accursed breed and Mahrattaland
is free!"
Nana Sahib was panting with the intensity of his passion. He paced the
floor flicking at his brown boots with his whip, and presently whirled
to say with a sneering smile on his thin lips:
"The English can teach a man just one thing--to die for his ideals."
"Yes, Prince, of a certainty the Englishman knows how to die for his
country," Baptiste agreed in a soldier's tribute to courage.
"And for another nation's country," Nana Sahib rasped. "He is a born
pirate, a bred pirate--we in India know that; and that, General, is why I
am a Brahmin, because they alone will free Mahrattaland--faith, ideals.
Forms! the gods to me are not more than show-pieces. That Kali
spreads the cholera is one with the idea that the little red-daubed stone
Linga gets the woman a male child, false; these things are in ourselves,
and in Brahm. The priests sacrifice to Shiva, but I will sacrifice to
Mahrattaland, which to me is the supreme God."
Jean Baptiste looked out of his wise grey eyes into the handsome face

and felt a thrill, an awakening, the terrible sincerity of the speaker. At
times the ferocity in the eyes when he had spoken of sacrifice caused
the free-lance soldier to shiver. A blur of red floated before his
eyes--something of a fateful forecasting that some day the awful storm
that was brewing would break, and the fanatical Brahmin in front of
him would call for English blood to glut his hate. It was the more
appalling that Nana Sahib was so young. Closing his eyes Baptiste
heard the voice of an English Oxonian that perhaps should be chortling
of polo and cricket and racing; and yet the more danger--the
youthfulness of the agent of destruction; like a Napoleon--a corporal as
a boy. "_C'est la guerre_!" the French officer murmured.
Then, as a storm passing is often followed by smiling sunshine, so the
mood of Nana Sahib changed. He had the volatile temperament of a
Latin, and now he turned to the Minister, his face having undergone a
complete metamorphosis: "Dewani," he said, "do you remember when
a certain raja sent his Prime Minister and twenty thousand men to
punish Pertab for not paying his taxes, and Pertab gave one Bhart, a
Bagree, ten thousand rupees and a village to bring him the Minister's
head--which he did, tied to the inside of his brass-studded shield?"
"Yes, Prince; that is a way of this land."
Nana Sahib drew forth a gold cigarette case, lighted a cigarette from a
fireball that stood in a brass cup, and gazed quizzically at the Dewan.
There was a little hush. This story had set Jean Baptiste's nerves
tingling; there was something behind it.
The Dewan half guessed what was in the air, but he blinked his big
eyes solemnly, and reaching for a small lacquer box took from it a Ran
leaf, with a finger smeared some ground lime on it, and wrapping the
leaf around a piece of betel-nut popped it into his capacious mouth.
"These Bagrees are in the protection of Rajas, Karowlee, are they not?"
Nana Sahib asked.
"Yes, Prince; even some of Bhart's relatives are there--one Ajeet Singh;
he's a celebrated leader of these decoits."

"And Sindhia took from Karowlee some territory, didn't he?"
"Yes; Karowlee refused to pay the taxes."
"I should think the Raja would like to have it back."
"No doubt, Prince."
Nana Sahib, holding the cigarette to his lips between two fingers gazed
mockingly at the large-paunched Brahmin. Then he said; "I see the
illuminating light of understanding in your eyes, Dewani--a subtle
comprehension. Small wonder that you are Minister to the delightful
Sindhia. If you are making any promises to Karowlee, I should make
them in the name of Sindhia--through Sirdar Baptiste, of course. And,
Dewani, this restless cuss, Amir Khan, might make a treaty with the
English any time. The dear fish-eyed Resident has been particularly
active--my spies can hardly keep up with him. I shouldn't lose any
time--Ajeet Singh sounds promising."
Nana Sahib drew a