“Looks more like peace than war,” thought Chumbley, as the boats neared the landing-place—a roughly-constructed platform of bamboo, alongside of which the steersman cleverly laid the first naga, the second boat being steered beside the first and there made fast. The Inche Maida, with her female attendants, then came slowly up between two lines of her slaves to welcome with floral offerings the party of guests.
“Oh, it’s all nonsense, Chumbley,” whispered the doctor to the lieutenant.
“Yes. I think it is,” was the reply, “unless,” he added, with a laugh, “they come one of the Borgia tricks and poison the cups. I mean to drink with the Princess so as to be safe.”
“I don’t mean to think any more about it,” said the doctor.
As there was a good deal of ceremony observed by the Princess in coming to meet them, something in the form of a procession was made, the Rajah with great courtesy and good taste offering his arm to the oldest lady of the party—Mrs Doctor Bolter; and the pleasant little lady flushed slightly as she was led up to the Princess, who took her by the hands, kissed her on both cheeks, bidding her welcome and thanking her for coming; and then taking a magnificent bouquet of sweet-scented flowers from one of her attendants, she presented it to her guest.
Chumbley was one of the next to approach with the lady of a merchant settled at the station; and the Princess’s eyes flashed as the bright look of welcome to the great manly young fellow changed into one of anger.
It was but a flash though, and the next moment she was smiling as if in contempt of her suspicions, for the lady Chumbley escorted was sallow and grey, and the greeting to her was made as warm and affectionate as that to the doctor’s lady.
Then the Princess held out her plump, brown, well-shaped hand to Chumbley.
“I am glad to see you,” she said, with a smile, and her eyes seemed to rest with satisfaction upon his goodly proportions. “Take that,” she added, as she removed a great yellow jasmine sprig from her rich black hair; and Chumbley bowed, and placed it in his buttonhole.
They passed on, and other guests approached to be presented to the Princess in this sylvan drawing-room, held in the pale green light of the shade beneath the palms and lacing ferns, through which an arrowy rain of silver threads of sunlight seemed to be ever falling, flashing and scintillating the while.