The outlook, from any point of view, was gloomy.  The Gujarati had evidently won over the whole ship’s company.  Were they acting from the inclination for a rover’s life, coupled with the hope of gain, or had they been jockeyed into mutiny by Fuzl Khan?  Desmond could not tell, nor could he find out without betraying a knowledge of the plot.

Then he remembered the Babu.  He alone had been excepted; the other men held him in contempt; but despite his weaknesses, for which he was indeed hardly accountable, Desmond had a real liking for him; and it was an unpleasant thought that, whatever happened to himself, if the plot succeeded, Surendra Nath was doomed.

But thinking of this, Desmond saw one ray of hope.  He had not been for long the companion of men of different castes without picking up a few notions of what caste meant.  The Babu was a Brahman; as a Bengali he had no claim on the sympathies of the others; but as a Brahman his person to other Hindus was inviolable.  The Marathas were Hindus, and they at least would not willingly raise their hand against him.  Yet Desmond could not be certain on this point.  During his short residence in Gheria he had found that, in the East as too often in the West, the precepts of religion were apt to be kept rather in the letter than in the spirit.  He had seen the sacred cow, which no good Hindu would venture to kill for untold gold, atrociously overworked, and, when too decrepit to be of further service, left to perish miserably of neglect and starvation.  It might be that although the Marathas would not themselves lay hands on the Babu, they would be quite content to look calmly on while a Mohammedan did the work.

At the best, it was Desmond and the Babu against the crew—­hopeless odds, for if it came to a fight the latter would be worse than useless.  Not that Desmond held the man in such scorn as the men of his own color.  Surendra Nath was certainly timid and slack, physically weak, temperamentally a coward:  yet he had shown gleams of spirit during the escape, and it seemed to Desmond that he was a man who, having once been induced to enter upon a course, might prove both constant and loyal.  The difficulty now was that, prostrated by his illness during the storm, he was not at his best; certainly in no condition to face a difficulty either mental or physical.

So Desmond resolved not to tell him of the danger impending.  He feared the effect upon his shaken nerves.  He would not intentionally do anything against Desmond’s interest, but he could scarcely fail to betray his anxiety to the conspirators.  Feeling that there was nobody to confide in, Desmond decided that his only course was to feign ignorance of what was going on, and await events with what composure he might.  Not that he would relax his watchfulness; on the contrary he was alert and keen, ready to seize with manful grip the skirts of chance.

Perhaps, he thought, the grab might fall in with a British ship.  But what would that avail?  The grab with her extraordinary sailing powers could show a clean pair of heels to any Indiaman, however fast, even if he could find an opportunity of signaling for help.  Fuzl Khan, without doubt, would take care that he never had such a chance.