"This one," hissed Ben Ali, "will bring trouble to an enemy of mine."
"And to yourself, it may be," added Dhondaram, resuming his squatting attitude on the scarlet cloth and whiffing a thin line of vapor into the air.
"The goddess Kali protects me," averred Ben Ali. "It is written in my forehead."
"What else is written in your forehead?" asked Dhondaram after a space. "What was it that caused you to send for me, and to ask me to leave my profitable work in the museum, come here, and bring the worst of my hooded pets?"
Ben Ali, in the silence that followed, picked up more pebbles and cast them into the fire.
"During the feast of Nag-Panchmi," he observed at last, "years since, Dhondaram, a mad elephant crushed a boat on the Ganges. You were in the boat, and I snatched you from certain death."
Dhondaram's face underwent a swift change.
"That, also," he said in a subdued tone, "is written in my forehead. I remembered it when your letter came to me. I owe you obedience until the debt is paid. I am here, Ben Ali. Command me."
"Such baht! You, with the cobra, Dhondaram, will go against my enemy and fulfill my vow. That will repay the debt."
A look of fear crossed Dhondaram's face. It passed quickly, but had not escaped the keen eyes of Ben Ali.