“He worships his own God,” said the Prime Minister. “We can starve him out.”
“Let the white man approach,” said Namgay Doola from within. “All others I will kill. Send me the white man.”
The door was thrown open and I entered the smoky interior of a Thibetan hut crammed with children. And every child had flaming red hair. A raw cow’s tail lay on the floor, and by its side two pieces of black velvet—my black velvet—rudely hacked into the semblance of masks.
“And what is this shame, Namgay Doola?” said I.
He grinned more winningly than ever. “There is no shame,” said he. “I did but cut off the tail of that man’s cow. He betrayed me. I was minded to shoot him, Sahib. But not to death. Indeed not to death. Only in the legs.”
“And why at all, since it is the custom to pay revenue to the King? Why at all?”
“By the God of my father I cannot tell,” said Namgay Doola.
“And who was thy father?”
“The same that had this gun.” He showed me his weapon—a Tower musket bearing date 1832 and the stamp of the Honourable East India Company.
“And thy father’s name?” said I.