“Probably two or three,” Traherne admitted, “a D. H. 10 can carry six to eight people but—”
Rukh interrupted. “I counted six planes—say at the outside twenty to thirty men. Even my toy army can cope with that number.”
The clamor outside was indescribable now. The Raja translated it correctly, and gave a word of command to the priest guarding a door, and the priest, with trembling hands threw it open wide.
An English boy sauntered in—three of Rukh’s soldiers half escorting, half guarding him. A fair, sunny-faced, blue-eyed youngster, trim and straight in his khaki-drill, the shoes below his “slacks” shining like polished, brown glass, two stripes on his epaulets, his black tie beautifully done, one yellow wisp of curl almost coquettishly peeping from under his immaculate service cap, and an avenue of ribbons cutting across his tunic—the blue, white and yellow of the G. S., the rainbow of the Victory, the red, white and blue of the 1914-15, of course, but the white and purple diagonals of the D. F. C. were there too, and the tiny rosette on the blue, dark-red and blue of his D. S. O. told that he had won it doubly. And he looked, as he was, a “mother’s boy” and no end of a wag. Truly, “the conquerors of the air have all been mere boys”!
“Who are you, sir?” the Raja demanded.
“One moment.” The English boy threw the word crisply over his shoulder to the bedizened figure sitting cross-legged and sovereign on its bedizened throne, and crossed to his countryman and woman, and saluted—the R. A. F. do not uncover.
Lucilla held out both her hands—they had met before at Delhi and at Simla. She was afraid to speak, almost afraid to look, lest she welcome him with a torrent of womanish tears.
“Mrs. Crespin!” the young pilot said, as he took the hands she gave. “I’m very glad we’re in time. Dr. Traherne, I presume? And,” when they had shaken hands gravely, “Major Crespin?” he asked.
“Shot whilst transmitting our message,” Traherne told him.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Crespin,” the boy said gravely. “By whom?” he demanded of Traherne.