“Hold!” said Kathlyn, standing up.  In her halting Hindustani she spoke:  “I have something to say to you all.  This woman tells the truth.  Let her go unafraid.  You, grave priests, have thrown your lot with Umballa.  Listen.  Have you not learned by this time that I am not a weak woman, but a strong one?  You have harried me and injured me and wronged me and set tortures for me, but here I stand, unharmed.  This day I will have my revenge.  My servant Ahmed has departed for the walled city of Bala Khan.  He will return with Bala Khan and an army such as will flatten the city of Allaha to the ground, and crows and vultures and tigers and jackals shall make these temples their abiding-places, and men will forget Allaha as they now forget the mighty Chitor.”  She swung round toward the priests.  “You have yourselves to thank.  At a word from me, Bala Khan enters or stops at the outer walls.  I have tried to escape you by what means I had at my command.  Now it shall be war!  War, famine, plague!”

Her young voice rang out sharp and clear, sending terror to all cowardly hearts, not least among these being those beating in the breasts of the priests.

“Now,” speaking to the soldiers, “go liberate my father, my sister and my husband-to-be; and woe to any who disobey me!  For while I stand here I shall be a queen indeed!  Peace; or war, famine and the plague.  Summon the executioner.  Arrest Durga Ram.  Strip him before my eyes of his every insignia of rank.  He is a murderer.  He shall go to the tread-mill, there to slave till death.  I have said it!”

Far in the rear of the cowed assemblage, near the doors, stood Ahmed, in his old guise of bheestee, or water carrier.  When he heard that beloved voice he felt the blood rush into his throat.  Aye, they were right.  Who but a goddess would have had at such a time an inspiration so great?  But it gave him an idea, and he slipped away to complete it.  Bala Khan should come in fact.

So he did not see Umballa upon his knees, whining for mercy, making futile promises, begging for liberty.  The soldiers spat contemptuously as they seized him and dragged him off.

The priests conferred hastily.  Bala Khan was a fierce Mohammedan, a ruthless soldier; his followers were without fear.  The men of Allaha might put up a good defense, but in the end they would be whelmed; and the gods of Hind would be cast out to make way for the prophet of Allah.  This young woman with the white skin had for the nonce beaten them.  Durga Ram had played the fool:  between the two women, he had fallen.  They had given him power, and he had let it slip through his fingers for the sake of reprisal where it was not needed.  Let him go, then, to the treadmill; they were through with him.  He had played his game like a tyro.  They must placate this young woman whom the people believed was their queen, but who they knew was the plaything of politics and expediencies.