Kirby had risen to his feet, and Warrington followed suit. Kirby's self-possession was returning and she must have known it; perhaps she even intended that it should. But she lay curled on the divan, laughing up at him, and perfectly unimpressed by his recovered dignity.
"If he's alive, and you know where he is," said Kirby, "I will pay you your price. Name it!"
"Beg for him! There is no other price. The
House-of-the-Eight-Half-brothers burns! Beg for him!"
Now, the colonel of a regiment of light cavalry is so little given to beg for things that the word beg has almost lapsed out of his vocabulary from desuetude.
"I beg you to tell me where he is," he said stiffly, and she clapped her hands and laughed with such delight that he blushed to his ears again.
"I have had a prince on his knees to me, and many a priest," she chuckled, "aye, and many a soldier—but never yet a British colonel sahib. Kneel and beg!"
"Why—what—what d'ye mean?" demanded Kirby.
"Is his honor not your honor? I have heard it said. Then beg, Colonel sahib, on your knees—on those stiff British knees—beg for the honor of Ranjoor Singh!"
"D'you mean—d'you mean—?"
"Beg for his honor, and beg for his life, on your knees, Colonel sahib!"