But Jaimihr did not wait another instant to hear the rest.  To him this seemed like the scheming of his brother.  Now he imagined he could read between the lines!  That letter sent to Alwa had been misreported to him, and had been really a call to come and free the prisoner and wreak Rangar vengeance!  He understood!  But first he must save his palace, if it could be saved.  The priests must have deceived him, so he wasted no time in arguing with them; he ran, with his guards behind him, to the outer wall of Siva’s temple where the horses waited, each with a saice squatting at his head.  The saices were sent scattering among the crowd to give the alarm and send the rest of his contingent hurrying back; Jaimihr and his ten drove home their spurs, and streaked, as the frightened jackal runs when a tiger interrupts them at their worry, hell-bent-for-leather up the unlit street.

Then Maharajah Howrah’s custom-accorded dignity stood him in good stead.  It flashed across his worried brain that space had been given him by the gods in which to think.  Jaimihr—­one facet of the problem and perhaps the sharpest—­would have his hands full for a while, and the priests—­wish how they would—­would never dare omit the after-ritual in Siva’s temple.  He—­untrammelled for an hour to come —­might study out a course to take and hold with those embarrassing prisoners of his.

He turned—­updrawn in regal stateliness—­and intimated to the high priest that the ceremony might proceed without him.  When the priests demurred and murmured, he informed them that he would be pleased to give them audience when the ritual was over, and without deigning another argument he turned through a side door into the palace.

Within ten minutes he was seated in his throne-room.  One minute later his prisoners stood in front of him, still holding each other’s hands, and the guard withdrew.  The great doors opening on the marble outer hall clanged tight, and in this room there were no carved screens through which a hidden, rustling world might listen.  There was gold-incrusted splendor—­there were glittering, hanging ornaments that far outdid the peacocks’ feathers of the canopy above the throne; but the walls were solid, and the marble floor rang hard and true.

There was no nook or corner anywhere that could conceal a man.  For a minute, still bejewelled in his robes of state and glittering as the diamonds in his head-dress caught the light from half a dozen hanging lamps, the Maharajah sat and gazed at them, his chin resting on one hand and his silk-clad elbow laid on the carved gold arm of his throne.

“Why am I troubled?” he demanded suddenly.

“You know!” said the missionary.  His daughter clutched his hand tightly, partly to reassure him, partly because she knew that a despot would be bearded now in his gold-bespattered den, and fear gripped her.

“Maharajah-sahib, when I came here with letters from the government of India and asked you for a mission house in which to live and work, I told you that I came as a friend—­as a respectful sympathizer.  I told you I would not incite rebellion against you, and that I would not interfere with native custom or your authority so long as acquiescence and obedience by me did not run counter to the overriding law of the British Government.”