CHAPTER XXIX

    Did he swear with his leg in a spring-steel trap
    And a tongue dry-cracked from thirst? 
    Or down on his knees at his lady’s lap
    With the lady’s lips to his own, mayhap,
    And his head and his heart aburst? 
    Nay!  I have listened to vows enough
    And never the oath could bind
    Save that, that a free man chose to take
    For his own good reputation’s sake! 
    They’re qualified—­they’re tricks—­they break—­
    They’re words, the other kind!

Mahommed Gunga had long ago determined to “go it blind” on Cunningham.  He had known him longest and had the greatest right.  Rosemary McClean, who knew him almost least of all, so far as length of time was concerned, was ready now to trust him as far as the Risaldar dared go; her limit was as long and as devil-daring as Mahommed Gunga’s.  Whatever Scots reserve and caution may have acted as a brake on Duncan McClean’s enthusiasm were offset by the fact that his word was given; so far as he was concerned, he was now as much and as obedient a servant of the Company as either of the others.  Nor was his attitude astonishing.

Alwa’s was the point of view that was amazing, unexpected, brilliant, soldierly, unselfish—­all the things, in fact, that no one had the least right to expect it to turn out to be.  Two or three thousand men looked to him as their hereditary chieftain who alone could help them hold their chins high amid an overwhelming Hindoo population; his position was delicate, and he might have been excused for much hesitation, and even for a point-blank refusal to do what he might have preferred personally.  He and his stood to lose all that they owned—­ their honor—­and the honor of their wives and families, should they fight on the wrong side.  Even as a soldier who had passed his word, he might have been excused for a lot of wordy questioning of orders, for he had enough at stake to make anybody cautious.

Yet, having said his say and sworn a dozen God-invoking Rangar oaths before he pledged his word, and then having pledged it, he threw Rajput tradition and the odds against him into one bottomless discard and proceeded to show Cunningham exactly what his fealty meant.

“By the boots and beard of Allah’s Prophet!” he swore, growing freer-tongued now that his liberty of action had been limited.  “Here we stand and talk like two old hags, Mahommed Gunga!  My word is given.  Let us find out now what this fledgling general of thine would have us do.  If he is to release my prisoner, at least I would like to get amusement out of it!”

So he and Mahommed Gunga swaggered across the courtyard to where Cunningham had joined the McCleans again.

“We come with aid and not objections, sahib,” he assured him.  “If we listen, it may save explanations afterward.”

So at a sign from Cunningham they enlarged the circle, and the East and West—­bearded and clean-shaven, priest and soldiers, Christian and Mohammedan—­stood in a ring, while almost the youngest of them—­by far the youngest man of them—­laid down the law for all.  His eyes were all for Rosemary McClean, but his gestures included all of them, and they all answered him with nods or grunts as each saw fit.