The young man swore, not unnaturally. "Well, what's the matter?" he cried angrily; past experience teaching him the hopelessness of escaping without some show of attention. "I'm not a magistrate any longer, thank God! Go to the police, my good woman. Oh!" he continued, in contemptuous comprehension, as the woman, clutching fiercely with both hands, let go her veil, which falling aside, showed a noseless face; "'tis your own fault, no doubt."
"The Lâlâ! the Lâlâ!" shrieked Kirpo. "'Tis his doing."
"Shunker Dâs?" asked John Raby, reining up his horse in sudden interest.
"Yes, Shunker Dâs! He gave me the gold bangles for going to see your mem and pretending to be his wife. He did it. The ill-begotten son of a hag, the vile offspring of a she-devil!"
So, with sobs and curses, she poured the whole tale of her wrong into the young man's ear. He listened to it with wonderful patience. "All you want, I suppose, is to punish your husband?" he asked, when she paused for breath.
"No!" almost yelled the woman. "The Lâlâ! the Lâlâ! I could choke him on his own flesh."
John Raby laughed. These half savages had certainly most expressive methods of speech, a pity their actions were not as forcible. "Wait here," he said quietly. "I'll send you out a note for the native magistrate; but mind! no word of your visit to my wife. I'm not going to have that all over the place."
Kirpo squatted down at the gate-post, wrapping the bloody veil round her once more; a habit she would have to grow into with the years. Not a stone's throw from this ghastly figure, in the large bare sitting-room of the rest-house, which she had decorated to the best of her ability with Indian draperies disposed after the fashion of the West, sat Belle in a low wicker chair. A tea-table bright with silver and china awaited the master's return, while a pile of music scattered on the open piano showed her recent occupation. "There you are at last, John!" she said. "Cold isn't it?--quite Christmas weather; but your tea is ready."
"And what has my wife been doing with herself all day?" he asked, with the complacent affection which invariably sprang up at the sight of his own home comfort.
"Oh, I? Working, and reading, and practising as usual. There's a very interesting article on the morality of the Vedas in the Nineteenth Century. It seems wonderfully pure."