"Not here must you call me that, Dhondaram," said the second. "I am known as Ben Ali."
Dhondaram spat contemptuously.
"'Tis a name of the Turks," he grunted; "a dog's name."
"It answers as well as any other."
These men were Hindoos, and their talk was in Hindustani.
"You sent for me at Chicago," proceeded Dhondaram; "you asked me to come to this place on the river, and to bring with me my most venomous cobra. See! I am here; and the cobra, you have discovered that the flute has no power to quiet its hostility. Your eyes did that, Yada—your pardon; I should have said Ben Ali. Great is the power of your eyes. They have lost none of their charms since last we met."
Ben Ali received this statement moodily. Picking up a small pebble, he cast it angrily into the fire.
"Why have you brought me here?" inquired Dhondaram, rolling a cigarette with materials taken from the breast of his flowing robe.
"Because," answered Ben Ali, "I have made a vow."
"By Krishna," and Dhondaram threw himself forward to light his cigarette at the fire, "vows are evil things. They bring trouble—nothing less."