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He bowed his head once in return to Nehal's greeting, but as he began to speak he interrupted him, and in a low, chanting voice uttered the last words he was ever heard to address to any living creature: "Speak not to me, Son of the Night and Day, for the Spirit of the Holy Yog is on me, and his tongue speaketh through my lips.
"You are very kind, Rajah Sahib. I'm afraid I'm not to be helped." The sight of that awkward shame and misery drove all personal grief from Nehal's mind. He drew forward a chair and seated himself opposite his companion, clasping his sinewy, well-shaped hands on the table before him. "Let us try and put all formalities aside," he said. "If you can treat me as a friend, let nothing prevent you.
"Who was she?" "She was your mother." "And I ?" It was not Beatrice who this time answered. A figure stepped forward out of the shadows and faced the Rajah. It was Carmichael, pale, deeply moved, but erect and steadfast. His eyes were fixed on Nehal's features with a curious, hungry eagerness which changed as he spoke into a growing recognition. "Let me tell you," he said.
The next instant, the torch-bearers, who guarded the open space around the two men, were thrust violently on one side, and with a wild scream, which rang high above the uproar, a half-naked figure rushed up the steps and with outspread arms stood like an evil phantom at Nehal's side. "He is dead!" he shrieked. "He is dead!
Any idea of relinquishing his plans had evaporated; the very suggestion of another influence having been sufficient to put him on his mettle and call to life the full energy of his headstrong ambition. He had the tact, however, to remain silent, and to leave Nehal's train of thought uninterrupted.
He looked up and saw a servant standing in the curtained doorway. The man's eyes were fixed on the outstretched figure at Nehal's feet, and there was an expression on the dark face so full of fear and horror that the Rajah involuntarily drew back. "Who was this woman?" he demanded. "Whence comes she?" "Lord Sahib, she was a mad-woman whom the Lord Behar Singh kept out of mercy.
It is the body of the son, but the soul of his father in his eyes and, father or son, their blood is poison to me." Nehal Singh knit his brows. "Knowest thou his name?" "Ay, now I know his name. It came back to me when I saw his face. Stafford he was called Stafford!" He crept closer, his thin hand fell like a vise on Nehal's arm. "Kill him!" he whispered.
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