“No, no, my lord,” he whispered; “we dare not.”
“Then I shall complain to the rajah. I am sure he would not have me annoyed in this way if he knew.”
“No, my lord,” said Salaman, humbly; “but what can thy servant do?”
“Do? Send the dirty old madman off.”
“Oh, hush, my lord, pray,” whispered Salaman. “Thy servant loves to serve thee, and his highness is thy friend. If aught befel my lord from the holy man’s curses, what should I do?”
“Do?” I repeated. “Send him about his business.”
“But he will not go, my lord, until he pleases.”
“Then I shall send one of the sowars with a message to the rajah,” I said firmly. “I am not going to be insulted by that old dog.”
“My lord, I pray,” said Salaman, imploringly. “His highness would punish me, and my lord knows it is no fault of mine his coming.”
“Look here, Salaman,” I said; “if you call me ‘my lord’ again, instead of ‘sahib,’ I will send to his highness. There, get rid of the old fellow as soon as you can. We should have such a man put in prison in England. Come and give me some food, and let him curse his voice back again. I don’t wonder that the tiger wanted to kill him.”