“Ambrose believes they intend fighting,” said Eveleen.
“I know he does, but the other Politicals assure me with one voice that all this assemblage of troops is under taken solely with the design to intimidate me—which design, by the way, is uncommonly mistaken! Poor Bayard himself could hardly depart for assuring me that his dear Khans hadn’t an ounce of vice in ’em—that it was their nature to bluster and talk big, but if I took ’em at their word I should be guilty of murder at the very least. So be it, says I to him, if murder starts it won’t be because I begin it. If the princes will keep the peace, peace they shall have; but if they fire a shot, Khemistan shall be annexed to the British Empire, and good for Khemistan it will be.”
“Bayard don’t think that,” said Eveleen slowly. “’Twould break his heart, I believe.”
“Then he must get his friends to keep their treaties—and mind you, the new one I am to make is a long way stiffer than the last. The Khans are to pay in territory for all their dirty tricks—give back to the Nawab of Habshiabad the districts they stole from him, and cede Sahar and Bab-us-Sahel to us permanently.”
“They won’t like that either, will they?”
“That they won’t, and very naturally. In their place I should object strongly myself. In fact, I object now, for what right have we here, taking possession of towns that don’t belong to us? But the Khans entered into the treaties, and they must keep ’em—or if they want to break ’em, they must fight fair. Those letters now, with the doubtful seals—you have heard of them?”
“I heard you speaking to Ambrose about them, but I don’t know what they would be. He don’t tell me things.”
“Wise man! Well, ma’am, they were merely written at the time of our Ethiopian disasters to incite Maharajah Ajit Singh of Ranjitgarh to form a league against us, and to the chiefs of the wild tribes to get ’em to fall upon our retreating troops. They were sealed with a seal closely resembling Gul Ali’s, but with some slight differences that made me think a forgery had possibly been attempted. But then Munshi puts me up to a nice little trick these fellows have of keeping two seals—one just sufficiently different from the other to justify doubts if there’s any wish to disavow a document,—and your good husband not only identifies the seal as genuine, but swears to the handwriting of the letters as being that of Gul Ali’s chief scribe. So he at least—and his brother Khans are all tarred with the same brush—stands convicted of a diabolical attempt to take advantage of our calamities. He’ll deny it, of course, as he will the latest evidence of his perfidy—a bond written in his own copy of the Koran, and sealed by all the Khans but Shahbaz, pledging ’em to unite in driving us from the country,—but I’ll bring him to book. What can you do with a man whose word can’t be trusted and who’ll forge his own seal? Nothing but bind him down so tight as to put it out of his power to do mischief, says I. My friend Gul Ali is taking a little trip in this direction, I hear, and when he and I meet to exchange compliments, there will be something more than compliments in store for him. I’ll wager he’ll be uncommonly taken aback when he finds I am acquainted with the engagement he carries in his Koran.”
“But if he denies it? Why, he might even produce another Koran to show you there was nothing in it at all.”
“To be sure he might—and most certainly will. And therefore my only course is to make it impossible for the suggested combination to take place. Believe me, ma’am, I have a rod in pickle for old Gul Ali. My sole fear is that he mayn’t care to face me.”