Caste | Page 5

the manner of Bhowanee, beneath the pipal tree. If Your Honour
will give us but an hour we will take the oath."
A mile down the red road from the bungalow, looking like a huge

beehive with its heavy enveloping roof of thatch, that was Jean
Baptiste's head-quarters, was a particularly sacred pipal of huge growth.
It was an extraordinary octopus-like tree, and most sacred, for perched
in the embrace of its giant arms was a shrine that had been lifted from
its base in the centuries of the tree's growth.
And now, an hour later, the pipal was surrounded by thousands of
Mahratta sepoys, for word had gone forth,--the mysterious rumour of
India that is like a weird static whispering to the four corners of the
land a message,--had flashed through the tented city that the men from
Karowlee were to take the oath of allegiance to Sindhia.
The fat Dewan had come down in a palki swung from the shoulders of
stout bearers, while Jean Baptiste had ridden a silver-grey Arab.
And then just as a bleating, mottled white-and-black goat was led by a
thong to the pipal, Nana Sahib came swirling down the road in a brake
drawn by a spanking pair of bay Arabs with black points. Beside him
sat the Resident's daughter, Elizabeth Hodson, and in the seat behind
was Captain Barlow.
At the pipal Nana Sahib reined in the bays sharply, saying, "Hello,
General, wanted to see you for a minute--called at the bungalow, and
your servant said you had gone down this way. What's up?" he
questioned after greetings had passed between Baptiste, Barlow and
Elizabeth Hodson.
"Just some new recruits, scouts, taking the oath of service," and
Baptiste closed an eye in a caution-giving wink.
A slight sneer curled the thin lips of Nana Sahib; he understood
perfectly what Baptiste meant by the wink--that the Englishman being
there, it would be as well to say little about the Bagrees. But the Prince
had no very high opinion of Captain Barlow's perceptions, of his finer
acuteness of mind; the thing would have to be very plainly exposed for
the Captain to discover it. He was a good soldier, Captain Barlow--that
happy mixture of brain and brawn and courage that had coloured so
much of the world's map red, British; he was the terrier class--all pluck,

with perhaps the pluck in excelsis--the brain-power not preponderant.
"Who is the handsome native--he looks like a Rajput?" Elizabeth asked,
indicating the man who was evidently the leader among the others.
"That is Ajeet Singh, chief of these men," Baptiste answered.
"He is a handsome animal," Nana Sahib declared.
"He is like an Arab Apollo," Elizabeth commented; and her tone
suggested that it was a whip-cut at the Prince's half-sneer.
The girl's description of Ajeet was trite. The Chief's face was almost
perfect; the golden-bronze tint of the skin set forth in the enveloping
background of a turban of blue shot with gold-thread draped down to
cover a silky black beard that, parted at the chin, swept upward to loop
over the ears. The nose was straight and thin; there was a predatory cast
to it, perhaps suggested by the bold, black, almost fierce eyes. He was
clothed with the full, rich, swaggering adornment of a Rajput; the
splendid deep torso enclosed in a shirt-of-mail, its steel mesh so fine
that it rippled like silver cloth; a red velvet vestment, negligently open,
showed in the folds of a silk sash a jewel-hilted knife; a tulwar hung
from his left shoulder. As he moved here and there, there was a sinuous
grace, panther-like, as if he strode on soft pads. At rest his tall figure
had the set-up of a soldier.
As the three in the brake studied the handsome Ajeet, a girl stepped
forward and stood contemplating them.
"By Jove!" the exclamation had been Captain Barlow's; and Elizabeth,
with the devilish premonition of an acute woman knew that it was a
masculine's involuntary tribute to feminine attractivity.
She had turned to look at the Captain.
Nana Sahib, little less vibrant than a woman in his sensitive
organisation, showed his even, white teeth: "Don't blame you, old
chap," he said; "she's all that. I fancy that's the girl they call Gulab

Begum. Am I right, Sirdar?"
"Yes, Prince," Jean Baptiste answered. "The girl is a relative of the
handsome Ajeet."
"She's simply stunning!" Captain Barlow said, as it were, meditatively.
But Nana Sahib, knowing perfectly well what this observation would
do to the austere, exact, dominating daughter of a precise man, the
Resident, muttered to himself: "Colossal ass! an impressionable cuss
should have a purdah hung over his soul--or be gagged."
"One of their nautch girls, I suppose;" Elizabeth thus eased some of the
irritation over Barlow's admiration in a well-bred sneer.