“That the chief, Amir Khan, has gathered an army, and they fear that because of an English bribe he will attack the Mahrattas; so the Dewan has brought men from Karowlee to go into the camp of the Pindaris in disguise and slay the chief for a reward.”

This information coming from Bootea was astounding.  Neither Resident Hodson nor Captain Barlow had suspected that there had been a leak.

“And was there talk of this message from the British to—?” Barlow checked.

“To the Sahib?” Bootea asked.  “Not of the message; but it was whispered that one would go to the Pindari camp to talk with Amir Khan, and perhaps it was the Sahib they meant.  And perhaps they knew he waited for orders from the government.”

Then suddenly it flashed upon Barlow that because of this he had been marked.  The foul riding in the game of polo that so nearly put him out of commission—­it had been deliberately foul, he knew that, but he had attributed it to a personal anger on the part of the Mahratta officer, bred of rivalry in the game and the fanatical hate of an individual Hindu for an Englishman.

“Now that a message has come will the Sahib go to the Pindari camp?” Bootea persisted.

“Why do you ask, Gulab?”

“Not in the way of treachery, but because the Sahib is now like a god; and because I may again be of service, for those who will slay Amir Khan will also slay the Sahib.”

“Gulab,—­”

Barlow’s voice was drowned by yells of terror in the outer room.

“Thieves!  Thieves have broken in to rob, and they have stolen my lamp! Chowkidar, chowkidar! wake, son of a pig!”

It was the bearer, who, suddenly wakened by some noise, had in the dark groped for his lamp and found it missing.

“Heavens!” the Captain exclaimed.  “Now the cook house will be empty—­the servants will come!” He rubbed a hand perplexedly over his forehead.  “Quick, Gulab, you must hide!”

He swung open a wooden door between his room and a bedroom next.  Within he said:  “There’s a bed, and you must sleep here till daylight, then I will have the chowkidar take you to where you wish to go.  You couldn’t go in the dark anyway.  Bar the door; you will be quite safe; don’t be frightened.”  He touched her cheek with his fingers:  “Salaam, little girl.”  Then, going out, he opened the door leading to the room of clamour, exclaiming angrily, “You fool, why do you scream in your dreams?”

“God be thanked! it is the Sahib.”  The bearer flopped to his knees and put his hands in abasement upon his master’s feet.

Jungwa had rushed into the room, staff in hand, at the outcry.  Now he stood glowering indignantly upon the grovelling bearer.

“It is the opium, Sahib,” he declared; “this fool spends all his time in the bazaar smoking with people of ill repute.  If the Presence will but admonish him with the whip our slumbers will not again be disturbed.”