"But, Khân-jee! there is no such hurry," protested the keeper of peace, the promoter of dreams. "The hell-doomed are at the last gasp. Have not two Commanders-in-Chief had to commit suicide before their troops? And was not the third allowed by special favor of the Queen to go away and do it privately? This one will have to do it also, and then----"
"And a letter has but this day come in," said a grave, clever-looking man, interrupting the tale once more, "offering ten lakhs; but as the writer makes stipulations, we are asking what treasury he means to loot, or if it is hidden hoards."
Bukht Khân shrugged his shoulders. "The Meean's or the banker's hoards are nearer," he said brutally, "and money we must have, if we are to fight as soldiers. Otherwise----" He paused. There was a stir at the entrance, where a news-runner had unceremoniously pushed his way in to flourish a letter in a long envelope, and pant with vehement show of breathlessness. "In haste! In haste! and buksheesh for the bringer."
The King, who had been listening wearily to the dispute, thinking possibly that the paucity of commanders on the Ridge was preferable to the plethora of them at court, looked up indifferently. They came so often, these bearers of wonderful news. Not so often as the little brocaded bags; but they had no more effect.
"Reward him, Keeper-of-the-Purse," he said punctiliously, "and read, slave. It is some victory to our troops, no doubt."
There was a pause, during which people waited indifferently, wondering, some of them, if it was bogus news that was to come or not.
Then the court moonshee stood up with a doubtful face. "'Tis from Cawnpore," he murmured, forgetting decorum and etiquette; forgetting everything save the news that the Nâna of Bithoor had killed the two hundred women and children he had pledged himself to save.
Bukht Khân's hand went to his sword once more, as he listened, and he turned hastily to Hussan Askuri. "That settles it as thou wouldst have it," he whispered. "It is Holy War indeed, or defeat."
But Mirza Moghul shrank as a man shrinks from the scaffold.
The old King stood up quickly; stood up between the lights looking out on the curtain of flowers. "Whatever happens," he said tremulously, "happens by the will of God."