The Rajah, a statue of a man, sat on a tall grey at the covert’s edge, directly below me; and from time to time I watched him through my field-glass.  He had lately recovered from a stroke of paralysis, and was (I am told) the wreck of his old self; but the old fire lived in the ashes.  He sat there, tall, lean, upright as a ramrod, with his eyes turned from the covert and gazing straight in front, over his horse’s ears, on the rushing Meavy.  He had forgotten the hounds; his care for his guests was at an end; and I wondered what thoughts, what memories of the East, possessed him.  There is always a loneliness about a great man, don’t you think?  But I have never felt one to be so terribly—­yes, terribly—­alone as the Rajah was that morning among his guests and the Devonshire tors.

“Every inch a king,” said a voice at my elbow, and a little man settled himself down on the turf beside me.  I set down my glasses with a start.  He was a spare dry fellow of about fifty, dressed in what I took for the working suit of a mechanic.  Certainly he did not belong to the moor.  He wore no collar, but a dingy yellow handkerchief knotted about his throat, and both throat and face were seamed with wrinkles—­so thickly seamed that at first glance you might take them for tattoo-marks; but I had time for a second, for without troubling to meet my eyes he nodded towards the Rajah.

“I’ve cut a day’s work and travelled out from Plymouth to get a sight of him; and I’ve a wife will pull my hair out when I get home and she finds I haven’t been to the docks to-day; and I’ve had no breakfast but thirty grains of opium; but he’s worth it.”

“Thirty grains of opium!” I stared at him, incredulous.  He did not turn, but, still with his eyes on the valley below us, stretched out a hand.  It’s fingers were gnarled, and hooked like a bird’s claw, and on the little finger a ruby flashed in the morning sunlight—­not a large ruby, but of the purest pigeon’s-blood shade, and in any case a stone of price.

“You see this?  My wife thinks it a sham one, but it’s not.  And some day, when I’m drunk or in low water, I shall part with it—­but not yet.  You’ve an eye for it, I see,”—­and yet he was not looking towards me,—­ “but the Rajah, yonder, and I are the only two within a hundred miles that can read what’s in the heart of it.”

He gazed for a second or two at the stone, lifted it to his ear as if listening, and lowering his hand to the turf, bent over it and gazed again.  “Ay, he could understand and see into you, my beauty! He could hear the little drums tum-a-rumbling, and the ox-bells and bangles tinkling, and the shuffle of the elephants going by; he could read the lust in you, and the blood and the sun flickering and licking round the kris that spilt it—­for it’s the devil you have in you, my dear.  But we know you—­he and I—­he and I. Ah! there you go,” he muttered as the hounds broke into cry, and the riders swept round the edge of the copse towards the sound of a view-halloo.  “There you go,” he nodded after the Rajah; “but ride as you will, the East is in you, great man—­its gold in your blood, its dust in your eyelids, its own stink in your nostril; and, ride as you will, you can never escape it.”