Part 167 (1/2)

The king and I and the populace approached the hut cautiously. There was no hope of capturing our man without loss of life, for from a hole in the wall projected the muzzle of an extremely well-cared-for gun--the only gun in the state that could shoot. Namgay Doola had narrowly missed a villager just before we came up.

The standing army stood.

It could do no more, for when it advanced pieces of sharp shale flew from the windows. To these were added from time to time showers of scalding water. We saw red beads bobbing up and down within. The family of Namgay Doola were aiding their sire. Blood-curdling yells of defiance were the only answer to our prayers.

”Never,” said the king, puffing, ”has such a thing befallen my state.

Next year I will certainly buy a little cannon.” He looked at me imploringly.

”Is there any priest in the kingdom to whom he will listen?” said I, for a light was beginning to break upon me.

”He wors.h.i.+ps his own G.o.d,” said the prime minister. ”We can but starve him out.”

”Let the white man approach,” said Namgay Doola from within. ”All others I will kill. Send me the white man.”

The door was thrown open and I entered the smoky interior of a Thibetan hut crammed with children. And every child had flaming red hair. A freshgathered cow's tail lay on the floor, and by its side two pieces of black velvet--my black velvet--rudely hacked into the semblance of masks.

”And what is this shame, Namgay Doola?” I asked.

He grinned more charmingly than ever. ”There is no shame,” said he. ”I did but cut off the tail of that man's cow. He betrayed me. I was minded to shoot him, sahib, but not to death. Indeed, not to death; only in the legs.”

”And why at all, since it is the custom to pay revenue to the king? Why at all?”

”By the G.o.d of my father, I cannot tell,” said Namgay Doola.

”And who was thy father?”

”The same that had this gun.” He showed me his weapon, a Tower musket, bearing date 1832 and the stamp of the Honorable East India Company.

”And thy father's name?” said I.

He obeyed, and I understood whence the puzzling accent in his speech came. ”Thimla Dhula!” said he, excitedly. ”To this hour I wors.h.i.+p his G.o.d.”

”May I see that G.o.d?”

”In a little while--at twilight time.”

”Rememberest thou aught of thy father's speech?”

”It is long ago. But there was 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 Darjiling, 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 aside, lighted a little oil-lamp, and set it before a recess in the wall. Pulling back a wisp of dirty cloth, he revealed a worn bra.s.s crucifix leaning against the helmet badge of a long-forgotten East India Company's regiment. ”Thus did my father,” he said, crossing himself clumsily. The wife and children followed suit. Then, all together, they struck up the wailing cham 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 sung, as if their hearts would break, their version of the chorus of ”The Wearing of the Green”: