The Bronze Bell | Page 4

He was neither overly
imaginative nor of a romantic turn of mind; but, the circumstances
reviewed, it's nothing to his discredit that he entertained a passing
suspicion of some curious conspiracy against the girl, thought of an
ambuscade, and with quick eyes raked the surroundings for signs of a
confederate of the Bengali.
He found, however, nothing alarming, no indication that the man were
not alone; nor, for that matter, could he reasonably detect in the fellow's
bearing anything but a spirit of conciliation almost servile. None the
less he held himself wary and alert, and was instant to halt the babu
when he, with the air of a dog cringing to his master's feet for
punishment, would have drawn nearer.
"Stop right there!" Amber told him crisply; and got for response
obedience, a low salaam, and the Hindu salutation accorded only to

persons of high rank: "Hazoor!" But before the babu could say more
the American addressed the girl. "What did he do?" he inquired,
without looking at her. "Frighten your horse?"
"Just that." The girl's tone was edged with temper. "He jumped out
from behind that woodpile; the horse shied and threw me."
"You're not hurt, I trust?"
"No--thank you; but"--with a nervous laugh--"I'm furiously angry."
"That's reasonable enough." Amber returned undivided attention to the
Bengali. "Now then," he demanded sternly, "what've you got to say for
yourself? What do you mean by frightening this lady's horse? What are
you doing here, anyway?"
Almost grovelling, the babu answered him in Urdu: "Hazoor, I am your
slave--"
Without thinking Amber couched his retort in the same tongue: "Count
yourself lucky you are not, dog!"
"Nay, hazoor, but I meant no harm. I was resting, being fatigued, in the
shelter of the wood, when the noise of hoofs disturbed me and I stepped
out to see. When the woman was thrown I sought to assist her, but she
threatened me with her whip."
"That is quite true," the girl cut in over Amber's shoulder. "I don't think
he intended to harm me, but it's purely an accident that he didn't."
Inasmuch as the babu's explanation had been made in fluent, vernacular
Urdu, Amber's surprise at the girl's evident familiarity with that tongue
was hardly to be concealed. "You understand Urdu?" he stammered.
"Aye," she told him in that tongue, "and speak it, too."
"You know this man, then?"
"No. Do you?"

"Not in the least. How should I?"
"You yourself speak Urdu."
"Well but--" The situation hardly lent itself to such a discussion; he had
the babu first to dispose of. Amber resumed his cross-examination.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "And what is your business in this
place?"
The fat yellowish-brown face was distorted by a fugitive grimace of
deprecation. "Hazoor, I am Behari Lal Chatterji, solicitor, of the Inner
Temple."
"Well? And your business here?"
"Hazoor, that is for your secret ear." The babu drew himself up,
assuming a certain dignity. "It is not meet that the message of the Bell
should be uttered in the hearing of an Englishwoman, hazoor."
"What are you drivelling about?" In his blank wonder, Amber returned
to English as to a tongue more suited to his urgent need of forcible
expression. "And, look here, you stop calling me 'Hazoor.' I'm no more
a hazoor than you are--idiot!"
"Nay," contended the babu reproachfully; "is it right that you should
seek to hoodwink me? Have I not eyes with which to see you, ears that
can hear you speak our tongue, hazoor? I am no child, to be played
with--I, the appointed Mouthpiece of the Voice!"
"I know naught of your 'Voice' or its mouthpiece; but certainly you are
no child. You are either mad, or insolent--or a fool to be kicked." And
in exasperation Amber took a step toward the man as if to carry into
effect his implied threat.
Alarmed, the babu cringed and retreated a pace; then, suddenly, raising
an arm, indicated the girl. "Hazoor!" he cried. "Be quick--the woman
faints!" And as Amber hastily turned, with astonishing agility the babu
sprang toward him.

Warned by his moving shadow as much as by the girl's cry, Amber
leapt aside and lifted a hand to strike; but before it could deliver a blow
it was caught and a small metallic object thrust into it. Upon this his
fingers closed instinctively, and the babu sprang back, panting and
quaking.
"The Token, hazoor, the Token!" he quavered. "It is naught but
that--the Token!"
"Token, you fool!" cried Amber, staring stupidly at the man. "What in
thunder----!"
"Nay, hazoor; how should I tell you now, when another sees and hears?
At another time, hazoor, in a week, or a day, or an hour, mayhap, I
come again--for your answer. Till then and forever I am your slave,
hazoor: the