“Speak!” he ordered. “What of Kharvani?”
“Listen, Mahommed Khan!” Ruth Bellairs laid one hand on his sleeve, and tried to draw him back. “Your ways are not my ways! You are a soldier and a gentleman, but please remember that you are of a different race! I can not let my life be saved by the torture of a human being—no, not even of a Hindu priest! Maybe it's all right and honorable according to your ideas; but, if you did it, I would never be able to look my husband in the face again! No, Risaldar! Let this priest go, or leave him here—I don't care which, but don't harm him! I am quite ready to ride with you, now, if you like. I suppose you have horses? But I would rather die than think that a man was put to the torture to save me! Life isn't worth that price!”
She spoke rapidly, urging him with every argument she knew; but the grim old Mohammedan shook his head.
“Better die here,” he answered her, “than on the road! No, memsahib. With thirteen blades behind me, I could reach Jundhra, or at least make a bold attempt; but single-handed, and with you to guard, the feat is impossible. This dog of a Hindu here knows of some hiding-place. Let him speak!”
His hand went to his sword again, and his eyes flashed.
“Listen, heavenborn! I am no torturer of priests by trade! It is not my life that I would save!”
“I know that, Mahommed Khan! I respect your motive. It's the method that I can't tolerate.”
The Risaldar drew his arm away from her and began to pace the room. The High Priest instantly began to speak to Ruth, whispering to her hurriedly in Hindustanee, but she was too little acquainted with the language to understand him.
“And I,” said the Risaldar's half-brother suddenly, “am I of no further use?”
“I had forgotten thee!” exclaimed the Risaldar.