"Yea, he was here!" replied Kunder, cynically. "He is ever here--after the mem! Where hides the doe thither comes the buck!"
Hirabul twirled his moustache fiercely. "Keep thy tongue off thy betters, scum of the bazaars, or I break thy every bone. I give thee womenkind in general--but this one is different. Whither hath he gone? for I must see him."
"No need," retorted Kunder, spitefully. "Thy pottage is cooked already. He told the mem so but now. 'No promotion,' said he--I know their speech. And she--"
"Base-born!--and she?"
"She laughed, as I do--scum of the bazaars! Ha, ha!" A devilish malignity had seized on him; he chuckled even while Hirabul shook him like a rat.
"Liar! Cur! Whither hath he gone?"
"To the church--with the mem! Thou wilt see! 'No promotion,' said he; and she--"
With a curse Hirabul flung the chuckler from him, and strode away into the growing darkness.
The church stood--after the manner of Indian churches--in a garden, and on the wide sweep of gravel round it carriages were awaiting the owners, who were busy within. The Colonel's dogcart was among them. So he was there, sure enough.
Hirabul Khan, hesitating at the open door he dared not enter, could see straight along the aisle to the altar; could see the cross of poinsettia and white roses upon the latter, the text above it--