“Follow me. Come to me in Howrah. Then whatever these fool Rangars choose to do, I swear by Siva and the Rites of Siva that I will hurry to the Company's aid!”
Rosemary McClean shuddered, and he knew it. But that fact rather added to his pleasure. The wolf prefers a cowering, frightened prey even though he dare fight on occasion. She was thinking against time. Through that one small, overburdened head, besides a splitting headache, there was flashing the ghastly thought of what was happening to her countrymen and women—of what would happen unless she hurried to do something for their aid. All the burden of all warring India seemed to be resting on her shoulders, in a stifling cell; and Jaimihr seemed to be the only help in sight.
“How many men could you summon to the Company's aid?” she asked him.
He laughed. “Ten thousand!” he boasted.
“Armed and drilled men—soldiers fit to fight?”
“Surely.”
“I think that is a lie, Jaimihr-sahib. There is not time enough to waste on lies. Tell me the exact truth, please.”
He contrived to save his face, or, rather, he contrived to make himself believe he did.
“I would need some to guard my rear,” he answered. “I could lead five thousand to the British aid.”
“Is that the truth?”