He turned without ceremony and left them.  With oriental philosophy they accepted the situation.  They had sought to overturn him, and he held them in the hollow of his hand.  During the weeks of his absence in America his spies had hung about them like bees about honey.  They were the fowlers snared.

Umballa proceeded along the corridor to a flight of stairs leading beneath the palace floor.  Here the soldiers were agreeable enough; they had reason to be.  Umballa gave them new minted rupees for their work, many rupees.  For they knew secrets.  Before the door of a dungeon Umballa paused and listened.  There was no sound.  He returned upstairs and sought a chamber near the harem.  This he entered, and stood with folded arms near the door.

“Ah, Colonel Sahib!”

“Umballa?” Colonel Hare, bearded, unkempt, tried to stand erect and face his enemy.  “You black scoundrel!”

“Durga Ram, Sahib.  Words, words; the patter of rain on stone roofs.  Our king lives no more, alas!”

“You lie!”

“He is dead.  Dying, he left you this throne—­you, a white man, knowing it was a legacy of terror and confusion.  You knew.  Why did you return?  Ah, pearls and sapphires and emeralds!  What?  I offer you this throne upon conditions.”

“And those conditions I have refused.”

“You have, yes, but now——­” Umballa smiled.  Then he suddenly blazed forth:  “Think you a white man shall sit upon this throne while I live?  It is mine.  I was his heir.”

“Then why didn’t you save him from the leopard?  I’ll tell you why.  You expected to inherit on the spot, and I spoiled the game.  Is that not true?”

“And what if I admit it?” truculently.

“Umballa, or Durga Ram, if you wish, listen.  Take the throne.  What’s to hinder you?  You want it.  Take it and let me begone.”

“Yes, I want it; and by all the gods of Hind I’ll have it—­but safely.  Ah!  It would be fine to proclaim myself when mutiny and rebellion stalk about.  Am I a pig to play a game like that?  Tch!  Tch!” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in derision.  “No; I need a buckler till all this roily water subsides and clears.”

“And then, some fine night, Hare Sahib’s throat?  I am not afraid of death, Umballa.  I have faced it too many times.  Make an end of me at once or leave me to rot here, my answer will always be the same.  I will not become a dishonorable tool.  You have offered me freedom and jewels.  No; I repeat, I will free all slaves, abolish the harems, the buying and selling of flesh; I will make a man of every poor devil of a coolie who carries stones from your quarries.”

Umballa laughed.  “Then remain here like a dog while I put your golden daughter on the throne and become what the British Raj calls prince consort.  She’ll rebel, I know; but I have a way.”  He stepped outside and closed the door.