Rung Ho! | Page 2

butt ends of their lances. He rode ahead, but every
other minute a mounted sepoy would reach out past him and drive his
lance-end into the ribs of some one in the way.
There would follow much deep salaaming; more than one head would
bow very low indeed; and in many languages, by the names of many
gods, he would be cursed in undertones. Aloud, they would bless him
and call him "Heaven-born!"

But he took no interest whatever in the crowd. His dark-brown eyes
were fixed incessantly on Rosemary McClean's back. Whenever she
turned a corner in the crowded maze of streets, he would spur on in a
hurry until she was in sight again, and then his handsome, swarthy face
would light with pleasure - wicked pleasure - self-assertive, certain,
cruel. He would rein in again to let her draw once more ahead.
Rosemary McClean knew quite well who was following her, and knew,
too, that she could do nothing to prevent him. Once, as she passed a
species of caravansary - low-roofed, divided into many lockable
partitions, and packed tight with babbling humanity - she caught sight
of a pair of long, black thigh boots, silver-spurred, and of a polished
scabbard that moved spasmodically, as though its owner were
impatient.
"Mahommed Gunga!" she muttered to herself. "I wonder whether he
would come to my assistance if I needed him. He fought once - or so he
says - for the British; he might be loyal still. I wonder what he is doing
here, and what - Oh, I wonder!"
She was very careful not to seem to look sideways, or seek
acquaintance with the wearer of the boots; had she done so, she would
have gained nothing, for the moment that he caught sight of her
through the opened door he drew back into a shadow, and swore lustily.
What he said to himself would have been little comfort to her.
"By the breath of God!" he growled. "These preachers of new creeds
are the last straw, if one were wanting! They choose the one soft place
where Mohammedan and Hindoo think alike, and smite! If I wanted to
raise hell from end to end of Hind, I too would preach a new creed, and
turn good-looking women loose to wander on the country-side! - Ah!"
He drew back even further, as he spied the egret and the sabre and the
stallion cavorting down the street - then thought better of it and strode
swaggering to the doorway, and stood, crimson-coated, in the sunlight,
stroking upward insolently at his black, fierce-barbered beard. There
was a row of medal ribbons on his left breast that bore out something at
least of his contention; he had been loyal to the British once, whether
he was so now or not.

The man on the charger eyed him sideways and passed on. Mahommed
Gunga waited. One of the prince's followers rode close to him - leaned
low from the saddle - and leered into his face.
"Knowest not enough to salute thy betters?" he demanded.
Mahommed Gunga made a movement with his right hand in the
direction of his left hip - one that needed no explanation; the other
legged his horse away, and rode on, grinning nastily. To reassure
himself of his superiority over everybody but his master, he spun his
horse presently so that its rump struck against a tented stall, and upset
tent and goods. Then he spent two full minutes in outrageous
execration of the men who struggled underneath the gaudy cloth, before
cantering away, looking, feeling, riding like a fearless man again.
Mahommed Gunga sneered after him, and spat, and turned his back on
the sunshine and the street.
"I had a mind to teach that Hindoo who his betters are!" he growled.
"Come in, risaldar-sahib!" said a voice persuasively." By your own
showing the hour is not yet - why spill blood before the hour?"
The Rajput swaggered to the dark door, spurs jingling, looking back
across his shoulder once or twice, as though he half-regretted leaving
the Hindoo horseman's head upon his shoulders.
"Come in, sahib," advised the voice again. "They be many. We are few.
And, who knows - our roads may lie together yet."
Mahommed Gunga kicked his scabbard clear, and strode through the
door. The shadows inside and the hum of voices swallowed him as
though he were a big, red, black-legged devil reassimilated in the
brewing broth of trouble; but his voice boomed deep and loud after he
had disappeared from view.
"When their road and my road lie together, we will travel all feet
foremost!" he asserted.

Ten turnings further away by that time, Rosemary McClean pressed on
through the hot, dinning swarm of humanity, missing no opportunity to
slip her pony