“Dost,” I whispered, “my horse will soon be here.”
“Ah? Then we must wait and take that—wait until the sahib is quite strong.”
“And suppose the rajah takes me away?”
“I shall follow you, sahib; never fear.”
“But tell me this,” I whispered. “I hear that the English are being driven out of the country, and that the rajahs and begums are going to call the land their own once more.”
Dost laughed silently.
“Yes; they may call the land their own once more, but it never will be again.”
“You believe that, Dost?” I said.
“Yes, I believe that, sahib, for the rajahs will never hold together, and fight as one man. The English will. The budmashes have won some fights where they were many against few, but the English will come again and drive them back, as you know. No; the rajahs will never hold the land again. Now I must go.”
“But when will you come again?”