Howrah did not even move his head in token that he listened, but his tired eyes answered.

“To that extent I promised not to interfere with your religion.”

Howrah nodded.

“Once—­twice—­in all nine times—­I came and warned you that the practice of suttee was and is illegal.  My knowledge of Sanskrit is only slight, but there are others of my race who have had opportunity to translate the Sanskrit Vedas, and I have in writing what they found in them.  I warned you, when that information reached me, that your priests have been deliberately lying to you—­that the Vedas say:  ’Thrice-blessed is she who dies of a broken heart because her lord and master leaves her.’  They say nothing, absolutely nothing, about suttee or its practice, which from the beginning has been a damnable invention of the priests.  But the practice of suttee has continued.  I have warned the government frequently, in writing, but for reasons which I do not profess to understand they have made no move as yet.  For that reason, and for no other, I have tried to be a thorn in your side, and will continue to try to be until this suttee ceases!”

“Why,” demanded Howrah, “since you are a foreigner with neither influence nor right, do you stay here and behold what you cannot change?  Does a snake lie sleeping on an ant-hill?  Does a woman watch the butchering of lambs?  Yet, do ant-hills cease to be, and are lambs not butchered?  Look the other way!  Sleep softer in another place!”

“I am a prisoner.  For months past my daughter and I have been prisoners to all intents and purposes, and you, Maharajah-sahib, have known it well.  Now, the one man who was left to be our escort to another place is a prisoner, too.  You know that, too.  And you ask me why I stay!  Suppose you answer?”

Rosemary squeezed his hand again, this time less to restrain him than herself.  She was torn between an inclination to laugh at the daring or shiver at the indiscretion of taking to task a man whose one word could place them at the mercy of the priests of Siva, or the mob.  But Duncan McClean, a little bowed about the shoulders, peered through his spectacles and waited—­quite unawed by all the splendor—­for the Maharajah’s answer.

“Of what man do you speak?” asked Howrah, still undecided what to do with them, and anxious above all things to disguise his thoughts.  “What man is a prisoner, and how do you know it?”

Before McClean had time to answer him, a spear haft rang on the great teak double door.  There was a pause, and the clang repeated—­another pause—­a third reverberating, humming metal notice of an interruption, and the doors swung wide.  A Hindoo, salaaming low so that the expression of his face could not be seen, called out down the long length of the hall.

“The Alwa-sahib waits, demanding audience!” There was no change apparent on Howrah’s face.  His fingers tightened on the jewelled cimeter that protruded, silk-sashed, from his middle, but neither voice nor eyes nor lips betrayed the least emotion.  It was the McCleans whose eyes blazed with a new-born hope, that was destined to be dashed a second later.