[Illustration: Ahmed salaamed deeply.]
"Be wise," whispered Umballa coldly. "If you take off that crown now, neither your gods nor mine could save you from that mob down yonder. Be advised. Rise!"
She obeyed. She wanted to cry out to that sea of bronze faces: "People I do not want to be your queen. Let me go!" They would not understand. Where was Rao? Where was Bruce? What of the hope that now flickered and died in her heart, like a guttering candle light? There was a small dagger hidden in the folds of her white robe; she could always use that. She heard Umballa speaking in the native tongue. A great shouting followed. The populace surged.
"What have you said to them?" she demanded.
"That her majesty had chosen Durga Ram to be her consort and to him now forthwith she will be wed." He salaamed.
So the mask was off! "Marry you? Oh, no! Mate with you, a black?"
"Black?" he cried, as if a whiplash had struck him across the face.
"Yes, black of skin and black of heart. I have submitted to the farce of this durbar, but that is as far as my patience will go. God will guard me."