“I pray to the Lord it may!” Major Crespin muttered, as Rukh came back into the room.
“I promised you news,” he said, more briskly than he often spoke, “and it has come.” His quickened voice was perfectly calm, but his eyes were glittering with something their drooping lids could not hide.
“What news?” Major Crespin inquired casually.
“My brothers’ execution is fixed for the day after to-morrrow,” Rukh replied slowly.
The Englishmen showed nothing, but their nerves twanged. And Mrs. Crespin half rose, then sank back a little limply, as she exclaimed nervously, “Then the day after to-morrow—?”
“Yes,” the Raja answered her gravely, “at sunset.”
For a perceptible, painful pause no one spoke. Lucilla Crespin sagged a little where she sat, the palm-leaf pattern on the shawl about her quivered a little. The men did not move, still gave no sign.
“But, meanwhile,” Rukh continued, “I hope you will regard my poor house as your own. This is Liberty Hall. My tennis courts, my billiard-room, my library are all at your disposal.” It was less cruelly meant than that he could not, even in the shadow of the impending doom he’d just pronounced, refrain from boasting. “I should not advise you,” he went on, “to pass the palace gates. It would not be safe, for popular feeling, I must warn you, runs very high. Besides, where could you go? There are three hundred miles of almost impassable country between you and the nearest British post.”
“In that case, Raja,” Traherne asked perplexedly, “how do you communicate with India? How has this news reached you?” His perplexity was admirably done.
“Does that puzzle you?” Rukh asked indulgently.