Part 39 (1/2)
It was curious the metamorphosis of love, the glamour of it that roused the imaginative sympathy of Finnerty, till, for the girl's sake, all her geese were swans. And yet there was truth in what he said; only a Celt could have understood Foley as Finnerty did.
Finnerty's hand had taken the other wrist. He drew the girl's hands up and placed them either side of his neck, and looked into her eyes.
”Colleen, I love you. Nothing in the world is going to take you from me--nothing. I'm going to seal that with a kiss, and neither man nor devil is going to part us after that.”
As his arms went around the girl a tremour shook the earth, the bungalow rocked drunkenly, they heard the cras.h.i.+ng of rocks and trees somewhere on the plateau.
Chapter XXIII
It had been easy for Darna Singh to smuggle Swinton through the tiger garden gate, for the guard were tribesmen of his own--rajputs who really hated Ananda.
And now the two sat in a room of the palace, at Swinton's elbow a switch that, at a s.h.i.+ft, would send a current of eruptive force into the magazine. Through a closed lattice they looked out upon the terrace thronged with natives--Mussulmans, Hindus, Buddhists; and, gazing, Swinton thought that it was like bringing together different explosives--a spark would perhaps fan a sudden mental conflagration among these fanatics. Silence reigned--a hush hung over the many-coloured throng as if something of this held them on guard.
Darna Singh was explaining in a whisper:
”Ananda has called these chiefs to sign a blood pact against the sircar.
The two men of the big beards are from Khyber way--Pathans whose trade is war; one is Ghazi Khan and the other is Dhera Ishmael. They will not sign the blood pact unless Ananda shows them the paper wherein the sircar is to force their young men to war. The maharajah will not be here, but whether he is true to the sircar no man knows, and sometimes, sahib, he does not know himself, because of the brandy.”
They could see Burra Moti upon her bended legs on the marble-slabbed terrace, a rich cloth, sparkling with jewels, draping her head and neck and body. Huge gold rings had been driven upon her ivory tusks.
Darna Singh whispered:
”Look, sahib, at the two men that stand beside the elephant's neck; they are my blood brothers, and when we entered at the teakwood gate I told them of the sapphire bell. They have their mission.”
Beyond, the Lake of the Golden Coin, rich in its gorgeous drape of shadow and moon gold, lay serene, placid, undisturbed by the puny man pa.s.sion that throbbed like a ticking watch above its rim.
The droning hum of voices, like the buzz of bees, died to silence, and foreheads were bowed to the marble floor as Prince Ananda, clothed in a coa.r.s.e yellow robe, came forth and strode like a Roman senator to table at which sat with the two Pathans a dozen petty rajahs, nawabs, and Mussulman chiefs.
”They are waiting to have the paper translated to them by a _moons.h.i.+_ and to see the sircar's seal upon it, for they all know that mark,”
Darna Singh said.
”What will happen if the paper does not come?” Swinton asked.
”They will not sign the blood bond; they will think that Rajah Ananda has told them lies. Also the two men who are my brothers will place another lie in the mouth of Ananda, if it is Kismet, and at that time the sahib will blow up the mine.”
From below the voice of Ananda came floating up to their ears as he talked to the chiefs in impa.s.sioned words of hatred to the British raj.
He told them of the machine guns and ammunition he had below; that the great German nation would send an army, for even now they had sent men to train the soldiers of the revolt.
To Swinton it was simply the mad exhortation of a mind crazed by ambition, but he knew that scores of revolts against the British had originated in just this way; the untutored natives, taught hatred of the British from their birth, would believe every word.