“Take the money and pay thy puppy’s debt with it.  Afterward beat the boy.  And see to it,” Yasmini advised, “that Mukhum Dass gives a receipt, lest he claim the debt a second time!”

Speechless between relief, doubt and resentment Chamu hid the banknote in his sash and tried to feign gratitude—­a quality omitted from his list of elements when a patient, caste-less mother brought him yelling into the world.

“Go!”

Tom Tripe made a sign to Trotters, who went and lay down, obviously bored, and Chamu departed backward, bowing repeatedly with both hands raised to his forehead.

“And now, Your Ladyship?”

“Take that eater-of-all-that-is-unnamable,” (she meant the dog), “and return to the palace.”

“Your Ladyship, it’s all my life’s worth!”

“Tell the maharajah that you have spoken with a certain Gunga Singh, who said that the Princess Yasmini is at the house of the commissioner sahib.”

“But it’s not true; they’ll—­”

“Let the commissioner sahib deny it then!  Go!”

“But, missy—­”

“Do as I say, Tom Tripe, and when I am maharanee of Sialpore you shall have double pay—­and a troupe of dancing girls—­and a dozen horses—­ and the title of bahadur—­and all the brandy you can drink.  The sepoys shall furthermore have modern uniforms, and you shall drill them until they fall down dead.  I have promised.  Go!”

With a wag of his head that admitted impotence in the face of woman’s wiles Tom strode out by the back way, followed at a properly respectful distance by his “eater-of-all-that-is-unnamable.”

Then the princess walked through the parlor to the deeply cushioned window-seat, outside which the commissioner sat quite alone with Mrs. Blaine, trying to pull strings whose existence is not hinted at in blue books.  Yasmini from earliest infancy possessed an uncanny gift of silence, sometimes even when she laughed.

Chapter Three

No Tresspass!

There’s comfort in the purple creed
Of rosary and hood;
There’s promise in the temple gong,
And hope (deferred) when evensong
Foretells a morrow’s good;
There’s rapture in the royal right
To lay the daily dole
In cash or kind at temple-door,
Since sacrifice must go before
The saving of a soul. 
The priests who plot for power now,
Though future glory preach,
Themselves alike the victims fall
Of law that mesmerizes all —
Each subject unto each —
Though all is well if all obey
And all have humble heart,
Nor dare to hold in cursed doubt
Those gems of truth the church lets out;
But where’s the apple-cart,
And where’s the sacred fiction gone,
And who’s to have the blame
When any upstart takes a hand
And, scorning what the priests have planned,
Plays Harry with the game?

“Give a woman the last word always; but be sure it is a question, which you leave unanswered.”