His giant half-brother peered from behind the curtain and listened. He could hear laughter, ribald, mocking laughter, but low, and plainly not intended for the High Priest's ears.
“They go!” he growled.
“Then follow.”
Once again the Risaldar was left alone with the priest and the unconscious Ruth. She was suffering from the effects of long days and nights of nerve-destroying heat, with the shock of unexpected horror super-added, and she showed no disposition to recover consciousness. The priest, though, was very far from having lost his power to think.
“You are a fool!” he sneered at the Risaldar, but the sword leaped from its scabbard at the word and he changed that line of argument. “You hold cards and know not how to play them!”
“I know along which road my honor lies! I lay no plans to murder people in their sleep.”
“Honor! And what is honor? What is the interest on honor—how much percent?”
The Risaldar turned his back on him, but the High Priest laughed.
“'The days of the Raj are numbered!” said the priest. “The English will be slain to the last man and then where will you be? Where will be the profit on your honor?”
The Risaldar listened, for he could not help it, but he made no answer.