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Updated: May 5, 2025
King inclined his head politely, but the weight of the knife inside his shirt did not encourage credulity. True, it might not be Yasmini's knife, and the Rangar's emphatic assurance might not be an unintentional admission that the man who had tried to use it was Yasmini's man.
A man whom he had never seen before leaned on a magazine rifle and eyed him as a tiger eyes its prey. "No farther!" he growled, bringing his rifle to the port. "Why not?" King asked him. "Allah! When a camel dies in the Khyber do the kites ask why? Go in!" He thought then of Yasmini's bracelet, that always gained him at least civility from every man who saw it.
It was a low oblong shed they sat in, with a wide door opening on a side street within four hundred yards of Yasmini's palace gate. It was furnished with a table, two chairs and a cot for Tom Tripe's special use whenever the maharajah's business should happen to keep him on night duty, his own proper quarters being nearly a mile away.
He was not conscious of asking anything, but being a soldier his curiosity followed a more or less definite line. Yasmini's breath began to come and go again with the little hissing sound. Her hot hands pressed his own. The mist suddenly dissolved. There was a road a long white road, across a plain, and the men-at- arms fought their way along it. They were facing east.
King's service uses whom it may, and he had met and talked with many dancing women in the course of duty; but as he stared at Yasmini's likeness he did not think he had ever met one who so measured up to rumor. The nautch he knew for a delusion. Yet ! The general watched his face with eyes that missed nothing. "Remember I said work with her!" King looked up and nodded.
Out of his pocket the general produced a letter that smelt strongly of a scent King recognized. He spread it out on a table, and King read. It was Yasmini's letter that she had sent down the Khyber to make India too hot to hold him. "Your Captain King has been too much trouble. He has taken money from the Germans. He adopted native dress. He called himself Kurram Khan.
Silken punkahs swung from chains, wafting back and forth a cloud of sandalwood smoke that veiled the whole scene in mysterious, scented mist. Through the open window came the splash of a fountain and the chattering of birds, and the branch of a feathery tree drooped near by. It seemed that the long white wall below was that of Yasmini's garden.
Walking to the bed, she stood for minutes, gazing at the Sleeper and his queen. And from the new angle from which King saw him the Sleeper's likeness to himself was actually startling. Startling weird like an incantation were Yasmini's words when at last she spoke. "Muhammad lied! He lied in his teeth! His sons have multiplied his lie!
Has it not been a sweeter tale in their ears than the story-teller's at the corner, because they have told it to themselves and acted a part in it?" "Well," said Tess, "you can't convince me! There are institutions that could be founded with all that money you and your husband are going to spend on ceremony, that would do good." "Institutions?" Yasmini's eyes grew ablaze with blue indignant fire.
See yonder smoke, bahadur?" Now, then, it was time to notice things, and the German gazed over the garden and Delhi walls and roofs at what looked very much more important than it really was. It looked as if at least a street must be on fire. "He made that holocaust, did the soldier!" Yasmini's manner was of blended awe and admiration. "He was suspected of disloyalty.
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