he’s minded.  You can’t poison him, for he won’t eat from strangers.  You can’t see to knife him in the dark, because he’s ash-colored and moves too swift.  And if Gungadhura comes an’ shoots at where Trotters’ eyes gleam—­well—­Mr. Dick Blaine is liable to wake up an’ show his highness how Buffalo Billy imitates a Gatling gun!  The house is safe, but I thought I’d come and mention it.”

“When will my palace be ready?” Yasmini asked.

“Tomorrow or the next day, Your Ladyship.  There wasn’t so much taken out after all, though a certain amount was stolen.  The first orders the new maharajah gave were to have your palace attended to; and some of the stolen stuff is coming in already; word went out that if stuff was returned there’d be nothing said, but if it weren’t returned there’d be something brand-new in the line of trouble for all concerned.  The priests have been told to pass the word along.  ’No obedience from priests, no priests at the coronation ceremony!—­It’s my belief from about two hours’ observation that we’ve got a maharajah now with guts, if you’ll excuse my bad French, please, ma’am.”

“What does it matter to you, Tom, whether he is good or not?” Yasmini asked mischievously.  Isn’t there a rumor that the English won’t allow any but the native-born instructors after this?”

“Ah, naughty, naughty!” he laughed, shaking a gnarled forefinger.  “I thought it was your voice in the crowd.  Your Ladyship ’ud like to have me all nervous, wouldn’t you?  Well—­if Tom Tripe was out of a job tomorrow, the very first person he’d apply to for a new one would be the Princess Yasmini; and she’d give it him!”

“What have you in your hand?” Yasmini asked.

“Gungadhura’s turban that he wore the night when Akbar chased him down the street.”

Yasmini nodded, understanding instantly.

Five minutes later, after a rousing stiff night-cap, Tom took his leave.  They heard his voice outside the window: 

“Trotters!”

The dog’s tail beat three times on the veranda.

“Take a smell o’ this!”

There was silence, followed by a growl.

“If he comes,—­kill him!  D’ye understand?  Kill him!  There—­there’s the turban for you to lie on an’ memorize the smell!  Kill him!  Ye understand?”

A deep growl was the answer, and Tom Tripe marched off toward the stables for his horse, whistling Annie Rooney, lest some too enthusiastic watcher knife him out of a shadow.

“When I am maharanee,” said Yasmini, “Tom Tripe shall have the title of sirdar, whether the English approve of it or not!”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Creator caused flowers to bloom in the desert and buried jewels in the bosom of the earth.  That is lest men should grow idle, wallowing in delights they have, instead of acquiring merit in the search for beauty that is out of reach. —­Eastern Proverb