“The Dogra has sense,” said Hira Singh. “Let it be so, sahib.”
“If the zamindar approve, it shall be done. What sayest thou, Yusuf Khan?”
“It is good; all except that we should run away, I and my sons. We do not run from jackals.”
“Nay, but they will suspect otherwise,” Ted explained. “And if ye resist they will fire at you and at the carts, and all will be spoiled. Ye must consent to play the coward.”
“Sahib, it is for me to obey you,” said the zamindar.
The three refugees walked their horses to the side of the conveyances, from behind whose curtains veiled faces were already peeping in anxious bewilderment; and presently an elderly dame and three younger ones descended and were led by the elder son—a married man—into the shelter of the bushes. Sikhs and Dogras began to peer inside the vehicles, and two of the former jumped in. But Govind Singh was too quick for them.
“Outside, dogs!” he shrilled. “Put back that which ye have stolen. Are there not enough enemies from whom to steal that ye must rob friends, and one who has served with Larens Sahib? Outside, I say!”
Inside the carts was strewn in confusion as much of the old Mohammedan’s portable property as could be put together in their haste. Abashed, the Sikhs dropped the few ornaments they had seized, and came out with sullen, crest-fallen expressions.
“Ho, zamindar!” called the risaldar. “Wilt thou or one of thy sons go in this cart to see that naught is stolen? Our men are thieves; they are but recruits who know no better.”
“Nay,” replied the old man, with simple dignity. “Ye are my friends. If they save my honour, I do not grudge them my goods.”