Part 24 (1/2)

Pleasant and peaceful indeed! that clank of a sentry, here and there, only giving a greater sense of security. Not that it was needed, for here, beyond cantonments, the houses of the clerks and civilians lay as peaceful, as secure. In the veranda of one of them, close to the road, a bearer was walking up and down crooning a patient lullaby to the restless fair-haired child in his arms.

No! truly there could be no fear. It was all talk! He set spurs to his horse and went on through the silent night at a hand-gallop, for he had another beast awaiting him halfway, and he wished to be in Delhi by dawn. There was a row of tall trees bordering the road on either side, making it dark, and through their swiftly pa.s.sing boles the level country stretched to the paler horizon like a sea. And as he rode, he sat in judgment in his thoughts on those dead levels and the people who lived in them.

Stagnant, featureless! A dead sea! A mere waste of waters without form or void! Not even ready for a spirit to move over them; for if that morning's work left them apathetic, the Moulvie of Fyzabad himself need preach no voice of G.o.d. For _this_, surely--this sense of injustice to others, must be the strongest motive, the surest word to conjure with. That dull dead beat of iron upon the fetters of others,--which he still seemed to hear,--the surest call to battle.

He paused in his thought, wondering if what he fancied he heard was but an echo from memory or real sound! Real; undoubtedly. It was the distant clang of the iron bells upon oxen. That meant that he must be seven or eight miles out, halfway to the next stage, so meeting the usual stream of night traffic toward Meerut. He pa.s.sed two or three strings of large, looming, half-seen wains without drawing bridle, then pulled up almost involuntarily to a trot at the curiously even tread of a drove of iron-shod oxen, and a low chanted song from behind it. Bunjarah folk! The rough voice, the familiar rhythm of the hoofs, reminded him of many a pleasant night-march in their company.

”A good journey, brothers!” he called in the dialect. The answer came unerringly, dark though it was.

”The Lord keep the Huzoor safe!”

It made him smile as he remembered that of course a lone man trotting a horse along a highroad at night was bound to be alien in a country where horses are ambled and travelers go in twos and threes. So the rough, broad faces would be smiling over the surprise of a sahib knowing the Bunjarah talk; unless, indeed, it happened to be---- The possibility of its being the _tanda_ he knew had not occurred to him before. He pulled up and looked round. A breathless shadow was at his stirrup, and he fancied he saw a shadow or two further behind.

”The Huzoor has mistaken the road,” came Tiddu's familiar creak.

”Meerut lies to the north.”

Breathless as he was, there was the pompous mystery in his voice which always prefaced an attempt to extort money. And Jim Douglas, having no further use for the old scoundrel, did not intend to give him any, so he simulated an utter lack of surprise.

”h.e.l.lo, Tiddu!” he said. ”I had an idea it might be you. So you recognized my voice?”

The old man laughed. ”The Huzoor is mighty clever. He knows old Tiddu has eyes. They saw the Huzoor's horse--a bay Wazeerie with a white star none too small, and all the luck-marks--waiting at the fifteenth milestone, by Begum-a-bad. But the Huzoor, being so clever, is not going to ride the Wazeerie to-night. He is going to ride the Belooch he is on back to Meerut, though the star on her forehead is too small for safety; my thumb could cover it.”

”It's a bit too late to teach me the luck-marks, Tiddu,” said Jim Douglas coolly. ”You want money, you ruffian; so I suppose you have something to sell. What is it? If it is worth anything, you can trust me to pay, surely.”

Tiddu looked round furtively. The other shadow, Jhungi or Bhungi, or both, perhaps--the memory made Jim Douglas smile--had melted away into the darkness. He and Tiddu were alone. The old man, even so, reached up to whisper.

”'Tis the yellow fakir, Huzoor! He has come.”

”The yellow fakir!” echoed his hearer; ”who the devil is he? And why shouldn't he come, if he likes?”

Tiddu paused, as if in sheer amaze, for a second. ”The Huzoor has not heard of the yellow fakir? The dumb fakir who brings the speech that brings more than speech. _Wah!_”

”Speech that is more than speech,” echoed Jim Douglas angrily, then paused in his turn; the phrase reminded him, vaguely, of his past thoughts.

Tiddu's hand went out to the Belooch's rein; his voice lost its creak and took a soft sing-song to which the mare seemed to come round of her own accord.

”Yea! Speech that is more than speech, though he is dumb. Whence he comes none know, not even I, the Many-Faced. But I can see him when he comes, Huzoor! The others, not unless he wills to be seen. I saw him to-night. He pa.s.sed me on a white horse not half an hour agone, going Meerutward. Did not the Huzoor see him? That is because he has learned from old Tiddu to make others see, but not to see himself. But the old man will teach him this also if he is in Meerut by dawn. If he is there by dawn he will see the yellow fakir who brings the speech that brings more than speech.”

The sing-song ceased; the Belooch was stepping briskly back toward Meerut.

”You infernal old humbug!” began Jim Douglas.

”The Huzoor does not believe, of course,” remarked Tiddu, in the most matter-of-fact creak. ”But Meerut is only eight miles off. His other horse can wait; and if he does not see the yellow fakir there is no need to open the purse-strings.”

The Englishman looked at his half-seen companion admiringly. He was the most consummate scoundrel! His blending of mystery and purely commercial commonplace was perfect--almost irresistible. There was no reason why he should go on; the groom, halfway, had his usual orders to stay till his master came. For the rest, it would be pleasant to renew the old pleasant memory--pleasant even to renew his acquaintance with Tiddu's guile, which struck him afresh each time he came across it.

He slipped from his horse without a word, and was about to pull the reins over her head so as to lead her, when Tiddu stopped short.

”Jhungi will take her to the rest-house, Huzoor, or Bhungi. It will be safer so. I have a clean cotton quilt in the bundle, and the Huzoor can have my shoes and rub his legs in the dust. That will do till dawn.”