In ten minutes of intimate talk he heard the essential facts, with reservations; and Roy had never felt more closely akin to him than on that evening.  Rajput chivalry is no mere tradition.  It is vital and active as ever it was.  Insult or injury to a woman is sternly avenged; and the offender is lucky if he escapes the extreme penalty.  Roy frankly hoped he had inflicted it himself.  But for Dyan surmise was not enough.  He would not eat nor sleep till he had left his own mark on the man who had come near killing his sister—­most sacred being to him, who had neither wife nor mother.

“The delicate attention was meant for me, you know,” Roy reminded him; simply from a British impulse to give the devil his due.

“Tcha!” Dyan’s thumb and finger snapped like a toy pistol.  “No law-courts talk for me.  You were so close together.  He took the risk.  By Indra, he won’t take any more such risks if I get at him!  You said we would not see him here.  But no doubt he has been hanging round Amber, making what mischief he can.  He must have heard your party was coming, and got sneaking round for a chance to score off you.  Young Ramanund, priest of Kali’s shrine, is one of those he has made his tool, the way he made me.  If he is in Amber, I shall find him.  You can take your oath on that.”  He stood up, straight and virile, instinct with purpose as a drawn sword.  “I am going now, Roy.  But not one word to any soul.  Grandfather and Aruna only need to know I am trying to find who toppled those stones.  I shall not succeed.  That is all:—­except for you and me.  Bijli, Son of Lightning, will take me full gallop to Amber.  First thing in the morning, I will come—­and make my report.”

“But look here—­Lance knows——­”

“Well, your Lance can suppose he got away.  We could trust him, I don’t doubt.  But what is known to more than two, will in time be known to a hundred.  For myself, I don’t trouble.  Among Rajputs the penalty would be slight.  But this thing must be kept between you and me—­because of Aruna.”

Roy held out his hand.  Dyan’s fingers closed on it like taut strips of steel.  Unmistakably the real Dyan Singh had shed the husks of scholarship and politics and come into his own again.

“I wouldn’t care to have those at my throat!” remarked Roy, pensively considering the streaks on his own hand.

“Some Germans didn’t care for it—­in France,” said Dyan coolly.  “But now——­” He scowled at his offending left arm.  “I hope—­very soon ... never mind.  No more talking ... poison gas!” And with a flash of white teeth—­he was gone.

Roy, left staring into the fire, followed him in imagination, speeding through the silent city out into the region of skulls and eye-sockets—­a flying shadow in the moonlight with murder in its heart....

* * * * *

Within an hour, that flying shadow was outside the gateway of Amber, startling the doorkeepers from sleep; murder, not only in its heart, but tucked securely in its belt.  No ‘law-courts talk’ for one of his breed; no nice adjustment of penalty to offence; no concern as to possible consequences.  The Rajput, with his blood up, is daring to the point of recklessness; deaf to puerile promptings of prudence or mercy; a sword, seeking its victim; insatiate till the thrust has gone home.