“But how do I know it is my child?” Dawa Tsering grumbled.
The sirdar’s face was in darkness from the shadow of the overhanging cliff. He did not laugh, but his smile was almost audible. “She knows. You may learn from her. Choose quickly!”
“Is it a man child?” Dawa Tsering asked; and the woman burst into excited speech, beginning to unwrap the bundle that swung at her back.
“Well, that is different,” said Dawa Tsering. “If it is a man child—there is need of men in Spiti. Very well, I will take the woman.”
“To Spiti!” the sirdar commanded. “Understand: I will write to the Rajah of Spiti. You will stay in Spiti and obey him. If you ever again cross the boundaries of Spiti without a letter from your rajah giving permission and stating the reason for it, you will deal with me!”
“Oh, well!” said Dawa Tsering, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Must I go now?”
“Now!” said the sirdar.
“Good-by, Ommonee. Now you must pick your own fleas off the dog. I will be sorry for you when I think of you without a servant, but I am too well born to be any man’s servant for long, and this woman is a good one. I will sing songs of you in Spiti after you are dead. I think you will die soon. Look out for that sirdar; he is a tricky fellow.”
He kicked the bundle the woman had dropped, as a signal for her to pick it up and follow him. In another moment he had vanished, clambering by a goat-track up the cliff, humming cheerfully through his nose each time he paused to let the laden woman overtake him.
The sirdar faced the discontented husbands, lifting his right hand for silence.