Malcolm understood instantly that his native companion had found the ekka-wallah more communicative. In fact, Chumru had fooled the man by pretending a willingness to slay the Feringhi forthwith, and the sheep-like ryot was now livid with terror at the prospect of witnessing an immediate killing.
When the zemindar was close to the ekka, Chumru whipped out one of the Brahmin’s cavalry pistols.
“Now, sahib!” he cried. Malcolm drew his sword and sprang down. The zemindar fell on his knees.
“Spare my life, huzoor, and I will tell thee everything,” he roared.
Were he not so worn with fatigue, and were not the issues depending on the man’s revelations so important, Malcolm could have laughed at this remarkable change of tone. The flabby, well-fed rascal squealed like a pig when the point of the sword touched his skin, and the Englishman was forced to scowl fiercely to hide a smile.
“Speak, sug,”[16] he said. “What of Fattehpore and Allahabad, and be sure thou has spent thy last hour if thou liest.”
“Sahib, God knoweth that I can tell thee naught of Allahabad, but the budmashes at Fattehpore have risen, and Tucker-sahib is dead. They killed him, I have heard, after a fight on the roof of the cutcherry.”
Malcolm guessed rightly that Mr. Tucker was the judge at that station, but he must not betray ignorance.
“And the others—they who fled? What of them?” he said, knowing that the scenes enacted elsewhere must have had their counterpart at Fattehpore.
“Wow!” The kneeling man flinched as the sword pricked him again. “There are two mems[17] in a house near the ghât. They alone remain of those who crossed. And I saved them, sahib. I swear it, by the Kaaba, I saved them.”