“Wouldst thou win Jaimihr’s favor?” asked Joanna, creeping up beside him, and whispering with all the suggestiveness she could assume.

“Who would not?  Who knows that within week he will not be ruler?”

“True.  I have a message for him.  I must hurry back.  Deliver it for me.”

“What would be the nature of the message?”

“This.  His prisoner is gone.  A raid has taken place.  In his absence, while his men patrolled the city, certain Rangars broke into his palace —­looted—­and prepared to burn.  Bid him hurry back with all the men he can collect.”

“From whom is this message?”

“From the captain of the guard.”

“And I am to deliver it?  Thou dodderest!  Mother of a murrain, have I not trouble sufficient for one man?  Who bears bad news to a prince, or to any but his enemy?  I—­with these two eyes—­I saw what happened to the men who bore bad news to Howrah once.  I—­with this broom of mine—­I helped clean up the mess.  Deliver thine own message!”

“Nay.  Afterward I will say this—­to the Jaimihr-sahib in person.  There is one, I will tell him, a sweeper in the palace, who refused to bear tidings when the need was great.”

“If his palace is burned and his wealth all ashes, who cares what Jaimihr hears?”

“There is no glow yet in the sky,” said Joanna looking up.  “The palace is not yet in flames; they loot still.”

“What if it be not true?”

“Will Jaimihr not be glad?”

“Glad to see me, the bearer of false news, impaled—­or crushed beneath an elephant—­ay—­glad, indeed.”

“The reward, were the Jaimihr-sahib warned in time, would be a great one.”

“Then, why waitest thou not to have word with him.  Art thou above rewards?”

“Have no fear!  He will know in good time who it was brought thee the news.”

They argued for ten minutes, Joanna threatening and coaxing and promising rewards, until at last the man consented.  It was the thought, thoroughly encouraged by Joanna, that the penalty for not speaking would be greater than the beating he might get for bearing evil news that at last convinced him; and it was not until she had won him over and assured herself that he would not fail that it dawned on Joanna just what an edged tool she was playing with.  While getting rid of Jaimihr, she was endangering the liberty and life of Alwa—­the one man able to do anything for the McCleans!

That thought sent her scooting over housetops, diving down dark alleyways, racing, dodging, hiding, dashing on again, and brought her in the nick of time to a ditch, from whose shelter she sprang and seized the hand of Ali Partab.  That incident, and her intimation that the missionaries were in Howrah’s palace, took Alwa back up the black, blind side street; and before he emerged from it he saw Jaimihr and his ten go thundering past, their eyes on the sky-line for a hint of conflagration, and their horses—­belly-to-the-earth—­racing as only fear, or enthusiasm, or grim desperation in their riders’ minds can make them race.