“And to-morrow I go back to my home,” said Jan Chinn to his faithful few, whom neither spirits, overeating, nor swollen glands could conquer. It is hard for children and savages to behave reverently at all times to the idols of their make-belief; and they had frolicked excessively with Jan Chinn. But the reference to his home cast a gloom on the people.
“And the Sahib will not come again?” said he who had been vaccinated first.
“That is to be seen,” answered Chinn, warily.
“Nay, but come as a white man—come as a young man whom we know and love; for, as thou alone knowest, we are a weak people. If we again saw thy—thy horse—” They were picking up their courage.
“I have no horse. I came on foot with Bukta, yonder. What is this?”
“Thou knowest—the thing that thou hast chosen for a night-horse.” The little men squirmed in fear and awe.
“Night-horses? Bukta, what is this last tale of children?”
Bukta had been a silent leader in Chinn’s presence since the night of his desertion, and was grateful for a chance-flung question.
“They know, Sahib,” he whispered. “It is the Clouded Tiger. That that comes from the place where thou didst once sleep. It is thy horse—as it has been these three generations.”
“My horse! That was a dream of the Bhils.”