For two days the Bagrees sat nursing their wrath at the reproaches of Dewan Sewlal.

And the Dewan, in spite of his bold denunciation of the decoits, was uneasy.  If they went back to Karowlee with a story of ill treatment, of broken promises, that hot-headed old Rajput would turn against Sindhia.  And the present policy of the Mahratta Confederacy was to secure allies in the revolt against the British which was being secretly planned.  The Dewan was also afraid of Nana Sahib.  He saw in that young man a coming force.  The Peshwa was actually the ruler of Mahrattaland; he had a commanding influence because he was the head of the Brahmins—­the Brahmins were the real power—­and his adopted son, his inborn subtle nature developed by his residence in England, now had great influence over him.  The Dewan knew that; and if he failed to carry out this mission of removing the dangerous one from Nana Sahib’s path it might cost him his place as Minister.

In his perplexity the Dewan asked Baptiste to formulate some excuse for getting Nana Sahib up to Chunda—­some matter affecting the troops, so that he might casually get a sustaining suggestion from the wily Prince.

It so happened that when Nana Sahib swung up the gravelled drive to the Sirdar’s bungalow on a golden chestnut Arab, Sewlal was there.  But when, presently, Baptiste’s durwan came in to say that Jamadar Hunsa of the new troops was sending his salaams to the Dewan, the latter gasped.  He would have told the Bagree to wait, but Nana Sahib, catching the name Hunsa, commanded: 

“By all means, my dear Baptiste, have that living embodiment of murder in.  His face is a delight.  You know”—­and he smiled at the General—­“that that frightfulness of expression is the very reason why the genial Kali has such a hold upon our people.  You’ve seen her, Baptiste; four arms, one holding a platter to catch the blood that drips from a head she suspends above it by another arm; the third hand clasps a sword, and the fourth has the palm spread out as much as to say, ‘That is what will happen to you.’”

The Frenchman shivered.  He was snapping a finger and thumb in mental torture.

But Nana Sahib chuckled:  “Her tongue protrudes thirsting for more blood—­”

But the Sirdar protested:  “Prince—­pardon, but—­”

“My dear Baptiste, when the Hunsa comes in observe if these things are not all stamped by Brahm on his frontispiece; he fascinates me.”

The Dewan, devout Brahmin, had been running his fingers along a string of lacquered beads that hung about his neck, muttering a prayer against this that was like sacrilege.

When the jamadar was shown into the room his face took on a look of uneasiness.  It but added to the ferocity of the square scowling massive head.  His huge shoulders, stooped forward as he salaamed, suggested the half-crouch of a tiger—­even the eyes, the mouth, induced thoughts of that jungle killer.