"Yes, Huzoor."
"Well, put this in his cup and your obligation to me is paid."
The majordomo stared a long time at that little packet of powder. A cold sweat formed upon his brow under his turban.
"Well?" said Umballa ironically.
"Huzoor, it is murder!"
Umballa shrugged and held out his hand for the packet.
The majordomo swallowed a few times, and bowed his head. "It shall be done, Huzoor. My life is yours to do with as you please. I have said it."
"Begone, then, and bring me the news on the morrow that Ramabai is dead. You alone know where the king is. Should they near the hut in which I have hidden him, see that he is killed. He is also useless."
The majordomo departed with heavy heart. Ramabai was an honest man; but Durga Ram had spoken.
At the banquet, with its quail and pheasant, its fruits and flowers, its rare plates and its rarer goblets for the light wines high castes permitted themselves occasionally to drink, Ramabai toyed idly with his goblet and thoughtlessly pushed it toward Kathlyn, who sat at his right.