“Huzoor, have you ever gone anywhere without me since you came to my hut that night when I was stricken with smallpox—”
“Only once, you rascal, and then you came after me to my great good fortune. Very well, then; that is settled. Stop raising dust and listen. We ride to-night. Let us discuss the manner of our traveling, for ’tis a long road and full of mischief.”
Chumru laid aside the garment and tickled his wiry hair underneath his turban.
“By the Kaaba,” he growled, “such roads lead to Jehannum more easily than to Delhi. Do you go to the Princess Roshinara, sahib?”
Malcolm’s overwrought feelings found vent in a hearty laugh.
“What fiend tempted thee to think of her, owl?” he cried.
“Nay, sahib, no fiend other than a woman. What else would bring your honor to Delhi? Is there not occupation here in plenty?”
“I tell thee, image, that the General-sahib hath ordered it. And I am making for the British camp on the Ridge, not for the city.”
Chumru dismissed the point. He was a fatalist and he probably reserved his opinion. Malcolm had beguiled the long night after they left Rai Bareilly with the story of his strange meetings with the King’s daughter. To the Eastern mind there was Kismet in such happenings.