‘And thy father’s name?’ said I.

‘Timlay Doola,’ said he.  ’At the first, I being then a little child, it is in my mind that he wore a red coat.’

’Of that I have no doubt.  But repeat the name of thy father thrice or four times.’

He obeyed, and I understood whence the puzzling accent in his speech came.  ‘Thimla Dhula,’ said he excitedly.  ’To this hour I worship his God.’

‘May I see that God?’

‘In a little while—­at twilight time.’

‘Rememberest thou aught of thy father’s speech?’

’It is long ago.  But there is one word which he said often.  Thus “Shun.” 
Then I and my brethren stood upon our feet, our hands to our sides. 
Thus.’

‘Even so.  And what was thy mother?’

’A woman of the hills.  We be Lepchas of Darjeeling, but me they call an outlander because my hair is as thou seest.’

The Thibetan woman, his wife, touched him on the arm gently.  The long parley outside the fort had lasted far into the day.  It was now close upon twilight—­the hour of the Angelus.  Very solemnly, the red-headed brats rose from the floor and formed a semicircle.  Namgay Doola laid his gun against the wall, lighted a little oil lamp, and set it before a recess in the wall.  Pulling aside a curtain of dirty cloth, he revealed a worn brass crucifix leaning against the helmet-badge of a long forgotten East India regiment.  ‘Thus did my father,’ he said, crossing himself clumsily.  The wife and children followed suit.  Then all together they struck up the wailing chant that I heard on the hillside—­

 Dir bane mard-i-yemen dir
 To weeree ala gee.

I was puzzled no longer.  Again and again they crooned, as if their hearts would break, their version of the chorus of the Wearing of the Green—­

They’re hanging men and women too, For the wearing of the green.

A diabolical inspiration came to me.  One of the brats, a boy about eight years old, was watching me as he sang.  I pulled out a rupee, held the coin between finger and thumb and looked—­only looked—­at the gun against the wall.  A grin of brilliant and perfect comprehension overspread the face of the child.  Never for an instant stopping the song, he held out his hand for the money, and then slid the gun to my hand.  I might have shot Namgay Doola as he chanted.  But I was satisfied.  The blood-instinct of the race held true.  Namgay Doola drew the curtain across the recess.  Angelus was over.

’Thus my father sang.  There was much more, but I have forgotten, and I do not know the purport of these words, but it may be that the God will understand.  I am not of this people, and I will not pay revenue.’

‘And why?’

Again that soul-compelling grin.  ’What occupation would be to me between crop and crop?  It is better than scaring bears.  But these people do not understand.’  He picked the masks from the floor, and looked in my face as simply as a child.