"It is not," replied Shere Ali. "It is the tomb of a saint," and he called to the mullah for corroboration of his words.
"It is the tomb of Luffe. He fell in this courtyard, struck down not by a bullet, but by overwork and the strain of the siege. I know. I have the story from an old soldier whom I met in Cashmere this summer and who served here under Luffe. Luffe fell in this court, and when he died was buried here."
Shere Ali, in spite of himself was beginning to listen to Captain
Phillips' words.
"Who was the soldier?" he asked.
"Colonel Dewes."
Shere Ali nodded his head as though he had expected the name. Then he said as he turned away:
"What is Luffe to me? What should I know of Luffe?"
"This," said Phillips, and he spoke in so arresting a voice that Shere Ali turned again to listen to him. "When Luffe was dying, he uttered an appeal—he bequeathed it to India, as his last service; and the appeal was that you should not be sent to England, that neither Eton nor Oxford should know you, that you should remain in your own country."
The Resident had Shere Ali's attention now.
"He said that?" cried the Prince in a startled voice. Then he pointed his finger to the grave. "The man lying there said that?"