A mile down the red road from the bungalow, looking like a huge beehive with its heavy enveloping roof of thatch, that was Jean Baptiste’s head-quarters, was a particularly sacred pipal of huge growth.  It was an extraordinary octopus-like tree, and most sacred, for perched in the embrace of its giant arms was a shrine that had been lifted from its base in the centuries of the tree’s growth.

And now, an hour later, the pipal was surrounded by thousands of Mahratta sepoys, for word had gone forth,—­the mysterious rumour of India that is like a weird static whispering to the four corners of the land a message,—­had flashed through the tented city that the men from Karowlee were to take the oath of allegiance to Sindhia.

The fat Dewan had come down in a palki swung from the shoulders of stout bearers, while Jean Baptiste had ridden a silver-grey Arab.

And then just as a bleating, mottled white-and-black goat was led by a thong to the pipal, Nana Sahib came swirling down the road in a brake drawn by a spanking pair of bay Arabs with black points.  Beside him sat the Resident’s daughter, Elizabeth Hodson, and in the seat behind was Captain Barlow.

At the pipal Nana Sahib reined in the bays sharply, saying, “Hello, General, wanted to see you for a minute—­called at the bungalow, and your servant said you had gone down this way.  What’s up?” he questioned after greetings had passed between Baptiste, Barlow and Elizabeth Hodson.

“Just some new recruits, scouts, taking the oath of service,” and Baptiste closed an eye in a caution-giving wink.

A slight sneer curled the thin lips of Nana Sahib; he understood perfectly what Baptiste meant by the wink—­that the Englishman being there, it would be as well to say little about the Bagrees.  But the Prince had no very high opinion of Captain Barlow’s perceptions, of his finer acuteness of mind; the thing would have to be very plainly exposed for the Captain to discover it.  He was a good soldier, Captain Barlow—­that happy mixture of brain and brawn and courage that had coloured so much of the world’s map red, British; he was the terrier class—­all pluck, with perhaps the pluck in excelsis—­the brain-power not preponderant.

“Who is the handsome native—­he looks like a Rajput?” Elizabeth asked, indicating the man who was evidently the leader among the others.

“That is Ajeet Singh, chief of these men,” Baptiste answered.

“He is a handsome animal,” Nana Sahib declared.

“He is like an Arab Apollo,” Elizabeth commented; and her tone suggested that it was a whip-cut at the Prince’s half-sneer.