“Sirdar,” he said, “never call me Nana Sahib again.  The English call me that, but I wait—­must wait; I smile and suffer.  I am Dandhu Panth, a Brahmin.  The English so loved me that they tried to make an Englishman of me, but, by Brahm! they taught me hate, which is their lot till the sea swallows the last of the accursed breed and Mahrattaland is free!”

Nana Sahib was panting with the intensity of his passion.  He paced the floor flicking at his brown boots with his whip, and presently whirled to say with a sneering smile on his thin lips: 

“The English can teach a man just one thing—­to die for his ideals.”

“Yes, Prince, of a certainty the Englishman knows how to die for his country,” Baptiste agreed in a soldier’s tribute to courage.

“And for another nation’s country,” Nana Sahib rasped.  “He is a born pirate, a bred pirate—­we in India know that; and that, General, is why I am a Brahmin, because they alone will free Mahrattaland—­faith, ideals.  Forms! the gods to me are not more than show-pieces.  That Kali spreads the cholera is one with the idea that the little red-daubed stone Linga gets the woman a male child, false; these things are in ourselves, and in Brahm.  The priests sacrifice to Shiva, but I will sacrifice to Mahrattaland, which to me is the supreme God.”

Jean Baptiste looked out of his wise grey eyes into the handsome face and felt a thrill, an awakening, the terrible sincerity of the speaker.  At times the ferocity in the eyes when he had spoken of sacrifice caused the free-lance soldier to shiver.  A blur of red floated before his eyes—­something of a fateful forecasting that some day the awful storm that was brewing would break, and the fanatical Brahmin in front of him would call for English blood to glut his hate.  It was the more appalling that Nana Sahib was so young.  Closing his eyes Baptiste heard the voice of an English Oxonian that perhaps should be chortling of polo and cricket and racing; and yet the more danger—­the youthfulness of the agent of destruction; like a Napoleon—­a corporal as a boy. “C’est la guerre!” the French officer murmured.

Then, as a storm passing is often followed by smiling sunshine, so the mood of Nana Sahib changed.  He had the volatile temperament of a Latin, and now he turned to the Minister, his face having undergone a complete metamorphosis:  “Dewani,” he said, “do you remember when a certain raja sent his Prime Minister and twenty thousand men to punish Pertab for not paying his taxes, and Pertab gave one Bhart, a Bagree, ten thousand rupees and a village to bring him the Minister’s head—­which he did, tied to the inside of his brass-studded shield?”

“Yes, Prince; that is a way of this land.”

Nana Sahib drew forth a gold cigarette case, lighted a cigarette from a fireball that stood in a brass cup, and gazed quizzically at the Dewan.  There was a little hush.  This story had set Jean Baptiste’s nerves tingling; there was something behind it.