CHAPTER V.
THE DRUM ECCLESIASTIC.
The silence of the city had lasted for seven days. And now, on the 1stof August, the dawn was at hand, and the rain which had been fallingall night had ceased, leaving pools of water about the city walls.Still, smooth pools like plates of steel, dimly reflecting the graymisty sky against which the minarets of the mosque showed as darkerstreaks, its dome like a faint cloud.
And suddenly the silence ended. The first shuddering beat of a royalsalute vibrated through the heavy dewy air, the first chord of "Godsave the Queen," played by every band in Delhi, floated Ridgeward.
The cheek of it!
That phrase--no other less trenchant, more refined--expressed purelythe feeling with which the roused six thousand listened from picket ortent, comfortable bed or damp sentry-go, to this topsy-turveydom ofanthems! The cheek of it! The very walls ought to fall Jericho-wisebefore such sacrilegious music.
But in the city it sent a thrill through hearts and brains. For itroused many a dreamer wild had never felt the chill of a sword-hilt onhis palm to the knowledge that the time for gripping one had come.
Since this was Bukr-eed, the Great Day of Sacrifice. No commonBukr-eed either, when the blood of a goat or a bull would worthilycommemorate Abraham's sacrifice of his best and dearest, but somethingmore akin to the old patriarch's devotion. Since on Bukr-eed, 1857,the infidel was to be sacrificed by the faithful, and the faithful bythe infidel.
For the silence of seven days had been a silence only from bugles andfifes; the drum ecclesiastic had taken their place. The mosques hadresounded day and night to the wild tirades of preachers, and evenMohammed Ismail, feeling that in religious war lay the only chance offorgiveness for past horrors, spent every hour in painting itsperfections, in deprecating any deviation from its rule. The sword orthe faith for men; the faith without the sword for those who could notfight. But others were less scrupulous, their denunciations lessguarded, and as the processions passed through the narrow streetsflaunting the green banner, half the Mohammedan population felt thatthe time had come to strike their blow for the faith. And HussanAskuri dreamed dreams; and the Bird-of-Heaven, with its crest new-dyedfor the occasion, gave the Great Cry viciously as it was paradedthrough jostling crowds in the Thunbi Bazaar, where religion foundrecruits by the score even among the women. While Abool-Bukr, vaguelyimpressed by the stir, the color, the noise, took to the green andswore to live cleanly. So that Newasi's soft eyes shone as sherepeated Mohammed Ismail's theories. They were very true, the Princesaid; besides this could be nothing but honest fighting since therewere no women on the Ridge; whereupon she stitched away at his greenbanner fearlessly.
But in the Palace it needed all Bukht Khan's determination and HussanAskuri's wily dreams to reconcile the old King to the breach ofetiquette which the sacrifice of a camel instead of a bull by theroyal hands involved. For the army--three-quarters Brahmin and Rajpoothad been promised, as a reward for helping to drive out the infidel,that no sacred kine should be killed in Hindustan.
And others besides the King objected to the restriction. Old Fatma,for instance, Shumsha-deen the seal-cutter's wife, as she swathed herhusband's white beard with pounded henna leaves to give it theorthodox red dye.
"What matters it, woman?" he replied sternly, but with an odd quaverin his voice. "There is a greater sacrifice than the blood of bullsand goats, and that I may yet offer this blessed Eed."
"And mayhap, mother," suggested the widowed, childlessdaughter-in-law, "a goat will serve our turn better than a stirk thisyear: there will be enough for offering, and belike there may be nofeasting."
The old lady, high-featured, high-tempered, wept profusely betweenher railings at the ill-omened suggestion; but the old Turk admittedthe possibility with a strained wondering look in the eyes which hadlost their keenness with graving texts. So, as the day passed thewomen helped him faithfully in his bath of purification, and thedaughter-in-law, having the steadiest hand, put the antimony into theold man's eyes as he squatted on a clean white cloth stretched in thecenter of the odd little courtyard. She used the stylus she hadbrought with her to the house as a bride, and it woke past memories inthe old brain, making the black-edged old eyes look at the wife of hisyouth with a wistful tenderness. For it was years since a woman hadperformed the kindly office; not since the finery and folly of lifehad passed into the next generation's hands. But old Fatma thought hestill looked as handsome as any as he finally stepped into the streetsin his baggy trousers with one green shawl twisted into a voluminouswaistband, another into a turban, his flaming red beard flowing overhis white tunic, and a curved scimitar--it was rather difficult to getout of its scabbard by reason of rust--at his side.
"Lo here comes old Fatma's Shumsha-deen," whispered other women,peeping through other chinks. "He looks well for sure; better by farthan Murri-am's Faiz-Ahmud for all his new gold shoes!"
And those two, daughter and mother-in-law, huddled in unaccustomedembrace to see the last of their martyr through the only convenientcrack, felt a glow of pitiful pride before they fell a-weeping anda-praying the old pitiful prayer of quarrelers that God would be goodto His own.
There were thousands in Delhi about sunsetting on the 1st of Augustpraying that prayer, though there were hundreds who held aloof,talking learnedly of the House of Protection as distinguished from theHouse of the Enemy, as they listened to the evening call to prayer.How could there be Holy War, when that had echoed freely during theBritish rule? And Mohammed Ismail, listening to their argumentsfeverishly, knew in his heart that they were right.
But the old Shumsha-deens did not split hairs. So as the sun set theywent forth in thousands and the gates were closed behind them; forthey were to conquer or die. They were to hurl themselves recklesslyon the low breastworks which now furrowed the long line of hill. Aboveall, on that which had crept down its side to a ruined temple withinseven hundred yards of the Moree Bastion.
So, about the rising of the moon, two days from full, began such acannonading and fusillading as was not surpassed even on that finalday when the Ridge, taking similar heart of grace, was to fling itselfagainst the city.
Major Erlton, off duty but on pleasure in the Saming-House breastwork,said to his neighbor that they must be mad, as a confused wild rushburst from the Moree gate. Six thousand or so of soldiers andShumsha-deens with elephants, camels, field-pieces, distinct in themoonlight. And behind them came a hail of shell and shot, with them arain of grape and musket-balls. But above all the din and rattle couldbe heard two things: The cries of the muezzins from the minarets,chanting to the four corners of Earth and Sky that "Glory is for alland Heaven for those who bleed," and an incessant bugling.
"It's that man in front," remarked Major Erlton. "Do you think weshall manage, Reid? There's an awful lot of them."
Major Reid looked round on his little garrison of dark faces; forthere was not an Englishman in the post; only a hundred quaint squatGhoorkas, and fifty tall fair Guides from the Western frontier.
"We'll do for just now, and I can send for the Rifles by and by.There's to be no pursuit, you know. The order's out. Ought to havebeen out long ago. Reserve your fire, men, till they come close up."
And come close they did, while Walidad Khan, fierce fanatic fromPeshawur, and Gorakh-nath, fiercer Bhuddist from Nepal, with fingerson trigger, called on them jibingly to come closer still; thoughtwenty yards from a breastwork bristling with rifles was surely closeenough for anyone? But it was not for the bugler who led the van,sounding assemblies, advances, doubles; anything which might stir thehearts behind.
"He has got a magnificent pair of bellows," remarked an officer, who,after a time, came down with a hundred and fifty of the Rifles to aidthat hundred and fifty natives in holding the post against sixthousand and more of their countrymen.
"Splendid! he has been at it this hour or more," said Major Erlton. "Ireally think they are mad. They don't seem to aim or to care. Theret
hey are again!"
It was darker now, and Walidad Khan from Peshawur and Gorakh-nath fromNepal, and Bill Atkins from Lambeth had to listen for that tootling ofassemblies and advances to tell them when to fire blindly from theembrazures into the smoke and the roar and the rattle. So they fell towondering among themselves if they had nicked him that time. Once ortwice the silence seemed to say they had; but after a bit the tootlingbegan again, and a disappointed pair of eyes peeping curiously,recklessly, would see a dim figure running madly to the assault again.
"Plucky devil!" muttered Major Erlton as with the loan of a rifle hehad his try. There was a look of hope on dark faces and white alike asthey cuddled down to the rifle stocks and came up to listen. It waslike shooting into a herd of does for the one royal head; and some ofthe sportsmen had tempers.
"_Shaitan-ke-butcha!_" (Child of the devil), muttered Walidad Khan,whereat Gorakh-nath grinned from ear to ear.
"Wot cher laughin' at?" asked Bill Atkins, who had been indulging inlanguage of his own. "A feller can't 'it ghosts. An' e's the piper asplayed afore Moses; that's what 'ee is."
"Look sharp, men!" came the officer's warning. "There's a new lotcoming on. Wait and let them have it."
They did. The din was terrific. The incessant flashes lightingup the city, showed its roofs crowded with the families of absentShumsha-deens. So High Heaven must have been assailed, indeed, thatnight.
And even when dawn came it brought no Sabbath calm. Only a fresh batchof martyrs. But they had no bugler; for with the dawn some fiercefrontiersman, jesting Cockney, or grinning Ghoorkha may have riskedhis life for a fair shot in daylight at the piper who played beforeMoses. Anyhow, he played no more. Perhaps the lack of him, perhaps thetorrents of rain which began to fall as the sun rose, quenched thefires of faith. Anyhow, by nine o'clock the din was over, the drumecclesiastic ceased to beat, and the English going out to count thedead found the bugler lying close to the breastwork, his bugle stillin his hand; a nameless hero save for that passing jest.
But someone in the city no doubt mourned the piper who played beforeMoses, as they mourned other martyrs. More than a thousand of them.
Yet the Ridge, despite the faith, and fury, and fusillading, had onlyto dig one grave; for fourteen hours of what the records call "unusualintrepidity"--contemptuously cool equivalent for all that faith andfury--had only killed one infidel.
Shumsha-deen's Fatma, however, was as proud as if he had killed ahundred; for he had bled profusely for the faith, having been at thevery outset of it all kicked by a camel and sent flying on to a rockto dream confused dreams of valor till the bleeding from his noserelieved the slight concussion of his brain, and enabled him to gohome, much shaken, but none the worse.
But many hundreds of women never saw their Shum-sha-deens again, or ifthey saw them, only saw something to weep over and bind in whiteswaddling clothes and gold thread.
So by dark on the 2d of August the sound of wailing women rose fromevery alley, and the men, wandering restlessly about the bazaars,listened to the sound of tattoo from the Ridge and looked at eachother almost startled.
"Go-to-bed-Tom! Go-to-bed-Tom! Drunk-or-sober-go-to-bed-Tom!"
The Day of Sacrifice was over, and Tom was going to bed quietly as ifnothing had happened! They did not know that three-quarters of theToms had been in bed the night before, undisturbed by the martyrs'supreme effort. If they had, they might have wondered still morepersistently what Providence was about.
But in the big mosque, among the great white bars of moonlightslanting beneath the dome, one man knew. He stood, a tall white figurebeneath a furled green banner, his arms outspread, his voice rising infierce denunciation.
"Cursed[5] be they who did the deed, who killed jehad! Lo! I told youin my dream in the past and ye would not believe. I tell it again thatye may know. It was dawn. And the Lord Christ and the Lord Mohammedsat over the World striving each for His own according to the Will ofthe Most High who sets men's quarrels before the Saints in Heaven witha commander to each. And I saw the Lord Christ weep, knowing thatjustice was on our side. So the fiat for victory went forth, and Islept. But I dreamed again and lo! it was eve with a blood-redsunsetting westward. And the Lord Christ wept still, but the LordMohammed's voice rang loud and stern. 'Reverse the fiat. Give thevictory to the women and the children.' So I woke. And it is true! istrue! Cursed be they who killed jehad!"
The voice died away among the arches where, in delicate tracery, theattributes of the Great Creator were cut into changeless marble.Truth, Justice, Mercy, all the virtues from which all religions maketheir God.
"He is mad," said some; but for the most part men were silent as theydrifted down the great Flights-of-Steps to the city, leaving MohammedIsmail alone under the dome.
"Didst expect otherwise, my Queen?" said Bukht Khan hardily. "So didnot I! But the end is gained. Delhi was not ours in heart and soulbefore. It is now. When the assault comes those who fought for faithwill fight for their skins. And at the worst there is Lucknow for goodSheeahs like the Queen and her slave. We have no tie here among theseSunnies who think only of their hoards."
Zeenut Maihl shrank from him with her first touch of fear, for she hadeight or nine lakhs of rupees hidden in that very house. This man whomshe had summoned to her aid bid fair to make flight necessary even fora woman. Had she ventured too much? Was there yet time to throw himover, throw everyone over and make her peace? She turned instinctivelyin her thoughts to one who loved money also, who also had hoards tosave. And so, within half an hour of Bukht Khan's departure,Ahsan-Oolah was closeted with the Queen, who after the excitement ofthe day needed a cooling draught.
Most people in the Palace needed one that night, for by this timealmost all the possible permutations of confederacy had come about,with the result that--each combination's intrigue being known to thenext--a general distrust had fallen upon all. In addition, there wasnow a fourth Commander-in-Chief; one Ghaus Khan, from Neemuch, whodeclared the rest were fools.
In truth the Dream was wearing thin indeed within the Palace.
But on that peaceful little housetop in the Mufti's quarter it seemedmore profound than ever; it seemed as if Fate was determined to leavenothing wanting to the strange unreal life that was being lived in thevery heart of the city. Jim Douglas was almost himself again. A littlelame, a little uncertain still of his own strength; and so,remembering a piece of advice given him by the old Baharupa never toattempt using the Gift when he was not strong enough for it to bestrong, he had been patient beyond Kate's hopes. But on this 2d ofAugust, after lying awake all night listening to the roar and the din,he had insisted on going out when Soma did not turn up as usual tobring the news. He would not be long, he said, not more than an houror two, and the attempt must be made some time. At no better one thannow, perchance, since folk would be occupied in their own affairs.
"Besides," he added with a smile, "I'm ready to allow the convalescenthome its due. While I've been kept quiet the very thought of concealedEuropeans has died out."
"I don't know!" she interrupted quickly. "It isn't long since PrinceAbool-Bukr chased that blue-eyed boy of the Mufti's over the roofsthinking he was one--don't you remember I was so afraid he might climbup here?"
"That's the advantage of being up-top," he replied lightly. "Now, ifanything were to happen, you could scramble down. But the Prince wasdrunk, and I won't go near his haunts--there isn't any danger--reallythere isn't!"
"I shall have to get accustomed to it even if there is," she repliedin the same tone.
Jim Douglas paused at the door irresolutely. "Shall I wait till Tarareturns?"
"No, please don't. She is not coming back till late. She growsrestless if she does not go--and I am all right."
In truth Tara had been growing restless of late. Kate, looking up fromthe game of chess--at which her convalescent gave her half the pieceson the board and then beat her easily--used to find those dark eyeswatching them furtively. Zora Begum had never played shatrinjwith the master, had nev
er read with him from books, had nevertreated him as an equal. And, strangely enough, the familiarcompanionship--inevitable under the circumstances--roused her jealousymore than the love-making on that other terraced roof had done. _That_she understood. _That_ she could crush with her cry of suttee. But_this_--this which to her real devotion seemed so utterly desirable;what did it mean? So she crept away, when she could, to take up thesaintly role as the only certain solace she knew for the ache in herheart.
Therefore Kate sat alone, darning Jim Douglas' white socks--which as abetter-class Afghan he was bound to wear--and thinking as she did sohow incredibly domestic a task it was! Still socks had to be darned,and with Tara at hand to buy odds and ends, and Soma with hisknowledge of the Huzoor's life ready to bring chessboards, and soap,and even a book or two, it seemed as if the roof would soon be a veryfair imitation of home. So she sat peacefully till, about dusk,hearing a footfall on the stairs halting with long pauses between thesteps; her vexation at her patient's evident fatigue overcame herusual caution; and without waiting for his signal knock she set thedoor wide and stepped out on to the stairs to give him a hand if needbe. And then out of the shadow of the narrow brick ladder came astrange voice panting breathlessly:
"Salaam! mem-sahib." She started back, but not in time to prevent abent figure with a bundle on its back from stumbling past her on tothe roof; where, as if exhausted, it leaned against the wall beforeslipping the bundle to the floor. It was an ordinary brown blanketbundle full of uncarded cotton, and the old woman who carried it wasragged and feeble. Emaciated too beyond belief, as if cotton-spinninghad not been able to keep soul and body comfortably together. Not avery formidable foe this--if foe it was. Why! surely she knew theface.
"I have brought Sonny back, Huzoor," came the breathless voice.
Sonny! Kate Erlton gave a little cry. She recollected now. "Oh, ayah!"she began recklessly, "what? where is he?"
The old woman stumbled to the door, closed the catch, and then leanedexhausted upon the lintel, sinking down slowly to a squattingposition, her hand upon her heart. There was more in this than thefatigue of the stairs, Kate recognized.
"He is in the bundle, Huzoor. The mem did not know me. She will knowthe baba."
Know him! As her almost incredulous fingers fumbled at the knots, hermind was busy with an adorable vision of white embroideries, goldencurls, and kissable, dimpled milk and roses. So it was no wonder thatshe recoiled from the ragged shift and dark skin, the blackclose-cropped hair shaved horribly into a wide gangway from nape toforehead.
"Oh, ayah!" she cried reproachfully, "what have you done to Sonnybaba!" for Sonny it was unmistakably in the guise of a street urchin.A foolish remark to make, doubtless, but the old Mai, most of whoselife had been passed in the curling of golden curls, the prinking ofmother's darlings, did not think it strange. She looked wistfully ather charge, then at Kate apologetically.
"It was safer, Huzoor. And at least he is fat and fresh. I gave himmilk and _chikken-brat_.[6] And it was but a tiny morsel of opium justto make him quiet in the bundle."
Something in the quavering old voice made Kate cross quickly to theold woman and kneel beside her.
"You have done splendidly, ayah, no one could have done better!"
But the interest had died from the haggard face. "They said folkwould be damned for it," she muttered half to herself, "but what couldI do? The mem, my mem, said 'Take care of the boy.' So I gave him_chikken-brat_ and milk." She paused, then looked up at Kate slowly."But I can grind and spin no more, Huzoor. My life is done. So I havebrought him here--and----" she paused again for breath.
"How did you find me out?" asked Kate, longing to give the old womansome restorative, yet not daring to offer it, for she was aMussulmani.
The old Mai reached out a skeleton of a hand, half-mechanically, toflick away a fluff of cotton wool from the still sleeping child'sface. "It was the _chikken-brat_, Huzoor. The Huzoor will remember theold mess khansaman? He did the _pagul khanas_ [picnics] and nautchesfor the sahib logue. A big man with gold lace who made the cake atChristmas for the babas and set fire to plum-puddeens as no otherkhansaman did. And made _estarfit_ turkeys and _sassets_ [stuffedturkey and sausages]--and----" She seemed afloat on a Bagh-o-baharlist of comestibles, a dream of days when, as ayah, she had watchedmany a big dinner go from the cook room.
"But about the _chikken-brat_, ayah?" asked Kate with a lump in herthroat; for the wasted figure babbling of old days was evidently closeon death.
"Huzoor! Mungul Khan keeps life in him, these hard times, with theselling of eggs and fowls. So he, knowing me, said there was more_chikken-brat_ than mine being made in the quarter. The Huzoor needhave no fear. Mungul weeps every day and prays the sahibs may return,because his last month's account was not paid. A sweeper woman, hesaid, bought 'halflings' for an Afghan's bibi. As if an Afghani woulduse three halflings in one day! No one but a mem making _chikken-brat_would do that. So I watched and made sure, against this day; for I wasold, and I had not spun or ground for long."
"You should have come before," said Kate gently. "You have wornyourself out."
The old woman stumbled to her feet. "My life was worn before, Huzoor.I am very old. I have put many boy-babies into the mem's arms to makethem forget their pain, and taken them from them to put the flowersround them when they were dead. He was safer with me speaking ourlanguage; with you he may remember. But I shall be dead, so I can dono more."
"Wait, do wait till the sahib returns," pleaded Kate.
The Mai paused, her hand on the latch. "What have I to do with thesahibs, Huzoor? Mine were not much count. They made my mems cry, orlaugh; cry first, then laugh. It is bad for mems. But my mem didnot care, she only cared for the babies and so there was always aflower for the grave. Matadeen, the gardener, made it and the bigHuzoor--Erlton sahib----"
She ceased suddenly and went mumbling down the stairs leaving Kate toclose the door again and drop on her knees beside the sleeping child.Was he sleeping or had the opium----? She gave a sigh of reliefas--her hair tickling his cheek as she bent to listen--up came achubby unconscious hand to brush the tickle away.
Sonny! It seemed incredible. The house would be a home indeed with hissweet "Mifis Erlton" echoing through it. Not what the old Mai had saidwas true. There would be danger in English prattle. She must not tellhim who she was. He must be kept as safe as that other child overacross the seas whose empty place this one had partly filled; thatother child who in all these storms and stress was, thank Heaven! sosafe. She must deny herself that pleasure, and be content with thisterribly disguised Sonny. Then she wondered if the dye came off ashers did; so with wet finger began trying the experiment on thechild's cheek. A little; but perhaps soap and warm water might--Shegathered Sonny in her arms and went over to the cooking-place. Andthere, to her unreasoning delight, after a space, was a square inch orso of milk and roses. It was trivial, of course; Mr. Greyman would saywomanish, but she should like to see the real Sonny just once! Shecould dye him again. So, with the sleeping child on her lap, she begansoft dabbings and wipings on the forehead and cheeks. It was afascinating task and she forgot everything else; till, as she beganwork on the nose, what with the tickling and the tepid bathingsdispelling the opium drowsiness, Sonny woke, and finding himself instrange arms began to scream horribly. And there she was forgetful ofcaution among other things, kissing and cuddling the frightened child,asking him if he didn't know her and telling him he was a good littleSonnikins whom nobody in the world would hurt! At which juncture, withbrain started in a new-old groove, he said amid lingering sobs:
"Oh, Mifis Erlton! What _has_ a-come of my polly?"
She recognized her slip in a second; but it was too late. And hark!Steps on the stair, and Sonny prattling on in his high, clear lisp!Not one step, but two; and voices. A visitor no doubt. Sometimes, toavoid suspicion, it was necessary to bring them in. She knew theroutine. The modest claim for seclusion to her supposed husband inPersian, the leaving of the door on the latch, the swif
t retreat intothe inner roof during the interval decorously allowed for such escape.All this was easy without Sonny. The only chance now was to stop hisprattle even by force, give the excuse that other women were within,and trust to a man's quickness outside.
Vain hope! Sonny wriggled like an eel, and, just as the expected knockcame, evaded her silencing hand, so that the roof rang with outragedyells:
"Oh! 'oo's hurtin' me! Oo's hurtin' me!"
Without the words even, the sound was unmistakable. No native childwas ever so ear-piercing, so wildly indignant. Kate, beside herself,tried soothings and force distractedly, in the midst of which animperative voice called fiercely:
"Open the door quick, for God's sake! Anything's better than that."
For the moment, doubtless, Sonny's yells ending with victory; butanother cry came sharp and short, as--the door giving under Kate'shasty fingers--two men tumbled over the threshold. Jim Douglasuppermost, his hands gripping the other's throat.
"Shut the door!" he gasped. "Lock it. Then my revolver--no--a knife--no noise--quick. I can't hold--the brute long."
Kate turned and ran mechanically, and the steel in her hand gleamed asshe flew back. Jim Douglas, digging his knees into the ribs belowthem, loosened one hand cautiously from the throat and held it out,trembling, eager.
But Kate saw his face. It might have been the Gorgon's, for she stoodas if turned to stone.
"Don't be a fool!" he panted--"give it me! It's the only----" Asudden twist beneath him sent his hand back to the throat. "It's--it'sdeath anyway----"
Death! What did that matter? she asked herself. Let it come, ratherthan murder!
"No!" she said suddenly, "you shall not. It is not worth it." Theknife, flung backward, fell with a clang, but the eyes which--thoughthat choking grip on the throat made all things dim--had been fixed onits gleam, turned swiftly to those above them and the writhing bodylay still as a corpse. None too soon, for Jim Douglas was almostspent.
"A rope," he muttered briefly, "or stay, your veil will do."
But Kate, trembling with the great passion and pity of her decision,had scarce removed it ere Jim Douglas, changing his mind, rose to hisfeet, leaving his antagonist free to do so likewise.
"Get up, Tiddu," he said breathlessly, "and thank the mem for savingyour life. But the door's locked, and if you don't swear----"
"The Huzoor need not threaten," retorted Tiddu, far more calmly as heretwisted his rag of a turban. "The Many-Faced know gratitude. They donot fall on those who find them helpless and protect them."
The thrust was keen, for in truth the old Baharupa had, not half anhour before, by sheer chance found his pupil in difficulties andinsisted on seeing him safe home, and on his promising not to go outagain till he was stronger; to both of which coercions Jim Douglas, inorder to evade suspicion, had consented. Yet, but for Kate, he wouldhave knifed the old man remorselessly. Even now he felt doubtful.
Tiddu, however, saved him further anxiety by stepping close to Kateand salaaming theatrically.
"By Murri-am and the neem, the mem is as my mother, the child as mychild."
So, for the first time, both he and Jim Douglas looked toward Sonny,who, with wide-planted legs and wondering eyes, had been watchingTiddu solemnly; the quaintest little figure with his red and whitecheeks and black muzzle.
The old mime burst into a guffaw. "_Wah!_ what a monkeyling! _Wah!_what a _tamasha_" (spectacle), he cried, squatting down on his heelsto look closer. In truth Sonny was like a hill baboon, especially whenhe smiled too; broadly, expectantly, at the familiar word.
"_Tamatha-wallah!_" he said superbly, "_bunao ramatha, juldibunao!_" (Make an amusement; make it quick.)
Tiddu, a child himself like all his race in his delight in children, achild also in his capacity of sudden serenity, caught up Kate's fallenveil, and in an instant dashed into the hackneyed part of thedaughter-in-law, while Kate and Jim Douglas stared; left behind, as itwere, by this strange irresponsible pair--the mimic of life, and thechild ignorant of what was mimicked. Tragedy a minute ago! Now Farce!They looked at each other, startled, for sympathy.
"Make a funny man now," came Sonny's confident voice, "a funny manbehind a curtain--a funny man wif a gween face an' a white face, an' alot of fwowers an' a bit o' tring."
Tiddu looked round quickly at Jim Douglas. "_Wah!_" he said, "thelittle Huzoor has a good memory. He remembers the Lord of Life andDeath."
But Kate had remembered it too, and she also had turned toJim Douglas passionately, almost accusingly. "It was you! You wereFate--you---- Ah! I understand now!"
"Do you?" he answered with a frown. "Then it's more than I do." Hewalked away moodily toward the knife Kate had flung away, and stoopedto pick it up. "But you were right in what you did. It was aninspiration. Look there!"
He pointed to the old Baharupa, who was playing antics to amuse Sonny,who lisped, "_Tha bath!_" (bravo!) solemnly at each fresh effort. ButKate shivered. "I did nothing. I thought I did; but it was Fate."
"My dear lady," he retorted with a kindly smile, "it is all in thenature of dreams. The convalescent home is turned into a _creche_. Butwe must transfigure the street urchin into the darling of his parents'hearts----" He paused and looked at Kate queerly. "I'll tell Tara torig him out properly; and you must take off half the stain, you know,and leave some color on his cheeks; for he must play the part as wellas----" He laughed suddenly. "It is really more dream-like than ever!"he added. And Kate thought so too.