The Path to Honour

by Sydney C. Grier

"No," was the reluctant answer. "Whip back these dogs—it is the Sahib's will," he said to his men. "And now, sahib, be persuaded to remount. Our lord loves not to be kept waiting."

"But what has Dwarika Nath done?" asked Gerrard, as he complied, leaving the fallen minister freed at any rate from the mob that had persecuted him.

"He has doubtless been found out," was the cynical reply. "The word went forth from our lord this morning that the fellow was to be beaten with the great shoe immediately before the Sahib's arrival, and to be driven forth from the city to meet him as he came."

Gerrard pondered vainly the connection between the two events. Did the expulsion of Dwarika Nath synchronize with his own entrance as a warning to him, or as an assurance of safety? Partab Singh, receiving him in the utmost state, and leading him by the hand into the palace between rows of salaaming courtiers, made no allusion to it, and the attempted poisoning that very evening tended to overshadow the affair in his mind. Gerrard never knew whether the Rajah had become aware of the intended assassination beforehand, or whether he regarded it as so extremely probable as to be practically a certainty. However this might be, upon the appearance of a curry of which he was particularly fond, and of which he had signified his intention of sending a portion, as a special mark of favour, to Gerrard at his separate table, the old ruler called the attention of all present to the exquisite appearance of the dish, and ordered the cook to be fetched, that he might be suitably complimented upon his handiwork. Gerrard discerned in the man's aspect no more than the natural awkwardness of a rough fellow brought into a position of unaccustomed prominence, but no sooner did the cook present himself before him than Partab Singh rose with one fierce word, and drawing his jewelled tulwar, cut off his head at a single blow. The horror of the scene, the severed head rolling on the ground, the blood sprinkled upon the food, affected the Englishman so powerfully that he did not perceive at first that the dead man's son and assistant, was also being dragged before the Rajah. There was no need even to question him, for on his knees, with piteous lamentation, he confessed that in the spiced sauce accompanying the curry a quantity of very finely powdered glass had been mingled, which would ensure an agonising death to any one who partook of it. This had been done at the instigation of the disgraced Dwarika Nath, whose bribe for the purpose would be found hidden in the thatch of the cook-house. Gerrard retained only a vague recollection of the issue of certain orders, of the informers being dragged shrieking away, and the departure of a troop of horsemen with orders to bring back Dwarika Nath dead or alive, or of the hastily prepared food he forced himself to eat, and the unruffled conversation of Partab Singh after supper. Dwarika Nath was not brought back, for he seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth, but the bodies of the two cooks were an eyesore on the ground outside the palace until the dogs and kites had done their work.

Another trial to Gerrard was the supervision maintained over his movements. In order to carry out Colonel Antony's instructions, he wished to move about the city and talk with the traders and others in the bazars, but no matter how skilfully he thought he had eluded his guardians, he had no sooner slipped out of the palace than a panting escort was at his heels, insisting on his mounting the horse presented to him by the Rajah—which at once put an end to any chance of unfettered conversation. So tiresome did this surveillance become that at last he determined to take advantage of Partab Singh's continued friendliness to relieve himself of it. They were sitting one evening in the covered balcony of a tower looking over the palace garden, oddly assorted companions, Gerrard on the watch, as usual, against being morally taken by surprise, the Rajah puffing at his hookah—for in private he was the veriest free-thinker—in silence, the gleaming of his fierce eyes the only sign that he was not asleep. He took the mouthpiece from his lips when Gerrard broke into his complaint.

"My soldiers have been lacking in respect—have hesitated to attend my friend whither he desires?"

"No, no!" answered Gerrard hastily, fearing a sudden holocaust. "They are most courteous. It is merely that they are always there."

With a swift movement Partab Singh bent forward, and lightly touched the ground at Gerrard's feet. "O my friend, what have I done, that you would bring the guilt of your death upon me?"

"Maharaj-ji," protested Gerrard indignantly, "I am not a griffin, to try to penetrate into mosques or zenanas. I would but walk about—of course with a servant or two."

"Has my friend not perceived yet that this city is in the eyes of its inhabitants sacred even as a mosque or a zenana? He sees only eyes beaming with affection as he rides through the streets?"