Caste | Page 7

the Kali shrine;
raw sugar was inclosed in a cloth and tied to a branch of the pipal.
The voice of the Bagree Chief, somewhat coarse in its fulness, its
independence, now was heard saying: "Sirdar Sahib, and Dewan Sahib,
we men of the nine castes of the Bagrees now make the sacred oath.
Come close that ye may observe."
Jean Baptiste edged his horse to the side of the road, and the Dewan,
heaving from the palki, stood upright.
Ajeet dipped a tapering finger in the pitcher of blood, touched the
swaying bag of sugar, and laying the hand against his forehead said, in
a loud voice:

"If I, Ajeet Singh, break faith with Maharaja Sindhia, may Bhowanee
punish me!"
Sookdee and Hunsa each in turn took the same solemn oath of
allegiance.
As Hunsa turned from the ordeal and passed the Gulab Begum to where
the Bagrees stood in line, Nana Sahib said, "Do you know, General,
what that baboon-faced jamadar made oath to?"
"The last one, my Prince?"
"Yes, he of the splendid ugliness. He testified, 'If I fail to thrust a knife
between the shoulder-blades of Ajeet Singh may Bhowanee cast me as
a sacrifice.'"
"He is jamadar to the other, Prince--but why?"
"He looked upon the Rose Lady as he passed, and as the blooded finger
lay upon his forehead he looked upon Ajeet, and in his pig eyes was
unholiness."
The cold grey eyes of the Frenchman rested for a second upon the
burning black eyes of the speaker, and again he shivered. He knew that
the careless words meant that Hunsa was an instrument, if needs be.
But the Prince's teeth were gleaming in a smile. And he was saying: "If
the play is over, Sirdar, turn your mount over to the syce and pop up
here beside Captain Barlow--I'll tool you home. The Captain might like
a peg."
The bay Arabs swirled the brake along the smooth roadway that lay
like a wide band of coral between giant green walls of gold-mohr and
tamarind; and sometimes a pipal, its white bole and branches gleaming
like the bones of a skeleton through leaves of the deepest emerald, and
its roots daubed with the red paint of devotion to the tree god. Here and
there a neem, its delicate branches dusted with tiny white star blossoms,
cast a sensuous elusive perfume to the vagrant breeze. Once a gigantic
jamon stretched its gnarled arms across the roadway as if a devilfish

held poised his tentacles to snatch from the brake its occupants.
When they had swung in to the Sirdar's bungalow and clambered down
from the brake, Elizabeth said: "If you don't mind, General Baptiste, I'll
just drift around amongst these beautiful roses while you men have
your pegs. No, I don't care for tea," she said, in answer to his
suggestion. There was a mirthless smile on her lips as she added: "I'm
like Captain Barlow, I like the rose."
The three men sat on the verandah while a servant brought
brandy-and-soda, and Nana Sahib, with a restless perversity akin to the
torturing proclivity of a Hindu was quizzing the Frenchman about his
recruits.
"You'll find them no good," he assured Baptiste--"rebellious cusses,
worthless thieves. My Moslem friend, the King of Oudh, tried them out.
He got up a regiment of them--Budhuks, Bagrees--all sorts; it was
named the Wolf Regiment--that was the only clever thing about it, the
name. They stripped the uniforms from the backs of the officers sent to
drill them and kicked them out of camp; said the officers put on swank;
wouldn't clean their own horses and weapons, same as the other men."
Then he switched the torture--made it more acute; wanted to know
what Sirdar Baptiste had got them for.
The Frenchman fumed inwardly. Nana Sahib was at the bottom of the
whole murderous scheme, and here, like holding a match over a keg of
powder, he must talk about it in front of the Englishman.
When the brandy was brought Nana Sahib put hand over the top of his
glass.
"Not drinking, Prince?" Barlow asked.
"No," Nana Sahib answered, "a Brahmin must diet; holiness is fostered
by a shrivelled skin."
"But pardon me, Prince," Barlow said hesitatingly, "didn't going across

the black-water to England break your caste anyway--so why cut out
the peg?"
"Yes, Captain Sahib,"--the Prince's voice rasped with a peculiar harsh
gravity as though it were drawn over the jagged edge of intense
feeling,--"my caste was broken, and to get it back I drank the dregs; a
cup of liquid from the cow, and not milk either!"
Baptiste coughed uneasily for he saw in the eyes of Nana Sahib
smouldering passion.
And Barlow's face was suffused with a sudden flush of embarrassment.
Perhaps it had been the sight of