“So you lied to me, even when I brought you water?” she answered. She was not afraid. She had nerve enough left to pity him.
“Yes. But I see that you did not lie. I am still thirsty, sahiba.”
He held out both hands, and she could see them dimly. There were no chains on them, and he was not bound in any way. She gave him the jar.
“Let me pass out again before you drink,” she ordered. “It is not known that I am in here, and I would not have it known.”
She could have bitten out her tongue with mortification a moment afterward for letting any such admission escape her. She heard him chuckle as he drank—he choked from chuckling, and set the jar down to cough. Then, when he had recovered breath again, he answered almost patronizingly.
“Which would be least pleased with you, sahiba? The Rangars, or thy father, or the other Englishman? But never mind, sahiba, we are friends. I have proved that we are friends. Never have I taken water from the hands of any man or any woman not of my own caste. I would have died sooner. It was only thou, sahiba, who could make me set aside my caste.”
“Let me pass!”
She certainly was frightened now. It dawned on her, as it had at once on him, that at the least commotion on his part or on hers a dozen Rangars would be likely to come running. And just as he had done, she wondered what explanation she would give in that case, and who would be likely to believe it. To have been caught going to the cell would have been one thing; to be caught in it would be another. He divined her thoughts.
“Have no fear, sahiba. Thou and I are friends.”
She did not answer, for words would not come. Besides, she was beginning to realize that words would be of little help to her. A woman who will tell nothing but the truth under any circumstances and will surely keep her promises is at a disadvantage when conversing with a man who surely will not tell the truth if he can help it and who regards his given word with almost equal disrespect.