"If Fate wills," replied Kunder, sinking back again to sloth.
A stealthy hand reached out a tiny paper packet wound with unspun silk.
"The sleep-giver--from the Master--it is fresh and good."
"There is no need for sleep-giving," replied Kunder, passively. "The mem is drunk with the love-philtre women crave. I know their ways"--he gave a little soft laugh. "She will not return to-night. So, at dawn, I and the jewels will be--with the Master--if Fate so wills."
"Why should She not will?"
Kunder laughed again. "Who knows what Fate may will?"
He looked out, when the stealthy footstep had gone, at the dusty trees that were growing ghostly in the twilight, and told himself again that none knew. Had he known when, as a lad, he fought against the Sahibs, that one day the death of a Sahib's five-year-old son would be to him as the death of his own child? Had he known when that nursling's red-gold curls--so like Boy's curls--lay confidingly on his breast, that one day he would be thief--perhaps murderer?
No! it was as Fate willed. He was, as ever, in Her hands to-night.
Another footstep! not stealthy this time, but hurried even in its measured military rhythm.
It was Hirabul Khan, the disgraced native officer, seeking an appeal to Colonel Gould before the limitations of an open arrest made it necessary for him to return to his quarters.