Caste | Page 9

tone of his voice:
"Dewan Sahib, harsh words are profitless--" his eyes, glittering, were
fixed on the bulbous orbs of the man of the quill--"and the talk of
women in the affairs of men is not in keeping with caste. If you pass
the order that we are not to have rations now that we are far from home,
what are we to do? Think you that Raja Karowlee--"
"Do! do! if you serve not Sindhia what care I what you do. Go back to
your honourable trade of thieving. And as to Raja Karowlee, a man
who keeps a colony of cowards--what care I for him. Go, go!"

The jamadars with glowering eyes turned from the Dewan, even the
harsh salaam they uttered in going sounded like a curse.
And when they had gone, Baptiste was startled by a gurgling laugh
bubbling up from the Dewan's fat throat.
"Sirdar," he chuckled, "I've given that posing Rajput a poem to commit
to memory. Ha-ha! They have two strong reasons now for going--their
shame and lean stomachs."
"They won't go," Baptiste declared. "When a man is afraid of anything
he can find a thousand reasons for not making the endeavour. If Sindhia
will give me the troops I will make an end of Amir Khan."
"And make enemies of the Pindaris: that we do not want; we want them
to fight with us, not against us. The great struggle is about to take place;
Holkar and Bhonsla and Sindhia, perhaps even the King of Oudh,
leagued together, the accursed English will be driven from India. But
even now they are trying to win over Amir Khan and his hundred
thousand horsemen by promises of territory and gold. With the Chief
out of the way they would disband; he is a great leader, and they flock
to his flag. You saw the Englishman, Captain Barlow?"
"Yes, Dewani. Good soldier, I should say."
"Well, Sirdar, we think that he waits here to undertake some mission to
Amir Khan. You see, no office can be conducted without clerks, and
sometimes clerks talk."
The Frenchman twisted nervously at his slim grey moustache. "I
comprehend, Dewani," he said presently; "it is expedient that Amir
Khan be eliminated."
"It would be a merciful thing," Sewlal added--"it would save
bloodshed."
"Well, Dewani, I must depart now. It will be interesting to see what
your Bagrees do, especially when they become hungry."

CHAPTER V
For two days the Bagrees sat nursing their wrath at the reproaches of
Dewan Sewlal.
And the Dewan, in spite of his bold denunciation of the decoits, was
uneasy. If they went back to Karowlee with a story of ill treatment, of
broken promises, that hot-headed old Rajput would turn against Sindhia.
And the present policy of the Mahratta Confederacy was to secure
allies in the revolt against the British which was being secretly planned.
The Dewan was also afraid of Nana Sahib. He saw in that young man a
coming force. The Peshwa was actually the ruler of Mahrattaland; he
had a commanding influence because he was the head of the
Brahmins--the Brahmins were the real power--and his adopted son, his
inborn subtle nature developed by his residence in England, now had
great influence over him. The Dewan knew that; and if he failed to
carry out this mission of removing the dangerous one from Nana
Sahib's path it might cost him his place as Minister.
In his perplexity the Dewan asked Baptiste to formulate some excuse
for getting Nana Sahib up to Chunda--some matter affecting the troops,
so that he might casually get a sustaining suggestion from the wily
Prince.
It so happened that when Nana Sahib swung up the gravelled drive to
the Sirdar's bungalow on a golden chestnut Arab, Sewlal was there. But
when, presently, Baptiste's durwan came in to say that Jamadar Hunsa
of the new troops was sending his salaams to the Dewan, the latter
gasped. He would have told the Bagree to wait, but Nana Sahib,
catching the name Hunsa, commanded:
"By all means, my dear Baptiste, have that living embodiment of
murder in. His face is a delight. You know"--and he smiled at the
General--"that that frightfulness of expression is the very reason why
the genial Kali has such a hold upon our people. You've seen her,
Baptiste; four arms, one holding a platter to catch the blood that drips
from a head she suspends above it by another arm; the third hand clasps

a sword, and the fourth has the palm spread out as much as to say, 'That
is what will happen to you.'"
The Frenchman shivered. He was snapping a finger and thumb in
mental torture.
But Nana Sahib chuckled: "Her tongue protrudes thirsting for more
blood--"
But the Sirdar protested: "Prince--pardon, but--"
"My dear Baptiste, when