“Bismillah! Am I servant here or master?” wondered Alwa, loud enough for all his men to hear. Then he thought better of his dignity. “Sahib,” he insisted, “I will not talk here before my men. We will have another conference.”
“I concede you ten minutes,” said Cunningham, preparing to follow him, and followed in turn by Mohammed Gunga.
“Now, swore the Risaldar into his beard, we shall see the reaching of decisions! Now, by the curse of the sack of Chitor we shall know who is on whose side, or I am no Rangar, nor the son of one!”
“I have a suggestion to make, sahib,” smiled Alwa, closing the door of the rock-hewn chamber on the three of them.
“Hear mine first!” said Cunningham, with a hint of iron in his voice.
“Ay! Hear his first! Hear Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur!” echoed Mahommed Gunga. “Let us hear a plan worth hearing!” And Alwa looked into a pair of steady eyes that seemed to see through him—past him—to the finished work beyond.
“Speak, sahib.”
“You are pledged to uphold Howrah on his throne?”
“Ha, sahib.”
“Then, I guarantee you shall! You shall not go to the Company's aid until you have satisfactory guarantees that your homes and friends will not be assailed behind your backs.”