"I lead a squadron of Sikh cavalry," said Ranjoor Singh, "and you ask me am I for the Raj?"
"The buffalo that carries water for the office lawn is for the Raj!" said Yasmini.
"Then he and I are brothers."
"And he, yonder—what of him?" She was growing impatient, for the tune was nearly at an end, and it would be time presently for her to take up the burden of entertainment.
"He will ask, perhaps, to speak with a Sikh of influence."
"Sahib, 'to hear is to obey,'" she mocked, rising to her feet.
"Listen yet!" commanded Ranjoor Singh. "Serve me in this matter, and there will be great reward. I, who am only one, might die by a dagger, or a rope in the dark, or ground glass in my bread; but then there would be a squadron, and perhaps a regiment, to ask questions."
"Perhaps?"
"Perhaps. Who knows?"
He spoke from modesty, sure of the squadron that he loved so much better than his life, but not caring to magnify his own importance by claiming the regard of the other squadrons, too. But Yasmini, who never in her life went straight from point to point of an idea and never could believe that anybody else did, supposed he meant that one squadron was in his confidence, whereas the rest had not yet been sounded.