Nicholson moved on. At the altar steps he came to a halt and waited. The figure did not stir nor seem to be aware of his presence. A torch-bearer knelt on the lower step, and the fiery deflection threw into plastic relief the set and pitiless features beneath the jeweled turban. Gone was the old simplicity. The hands that lay clasped one upon the other on the splendid scimitar were loaded with gems, and from the turban a single diamond sparkled starlike in the changing light. A splendid and romantic figure, truly; harmonizing with and dominating over the mysterious background. But it was not the splendor, nor even the stern tragedy written on the worn and haggard face, which caused Nicholson to feel a cold hand grasp at his bold self-confidence. It was the sudden intuitive realization that here the battle began. He was no longer the master personality towering over a hydra-headed multitude. Here it was a man against a man, will against will, despair against despair.
"Hail, Rajah Sahib!" he said in Hindustani. "Hail!"
His voice had echoed into silence before Nehal Singh moved. Then he lifted his hand in greeting.
"Hail, Englishman!"
"You know me," Nicholson went on, drawing nearer. "I am Nicholson,
Captain Nicholson of the—Gurkhas."
"I do not know you." There was a pitiless finality in the few words and in the gesture which accompanied them.
Nicholson lifted his head to the light.
"Nehal Singh, you lie. I was and am your friend."
He heard a stir behind him, and his instinct, doubly sharpened, felt how a dozen hands had flown to their weapons. Then again there was silence. His eyes had not flinched in their challenge.
"I have no friends among traitors and cowards."