Relief softened the austere cast of his bony face when Finnerty answered "No."
"It is as well," the Lumbani said, "for the young have not control of their tongues. But the sahib"—and the Banjara nodded toward Swinton, his eyes coming back to Finnerty's face—"is a man of discretion, is it not so, huzoor?"
To this observation the major agreed.
"And the sahib will not repeat what I tell?"
The Lumbani rubbed his long, lean hands up and down the length of his staff as though it were a fairy wand to ward off evil; his black, hawklike eyes swept the compound, the verandah, as much of the bungalow interior as they could; then pitching his voice so that it carried with wonderful accuracy just to the ears of the two men, he said: "There was a man beaten to-day at the gate of the tiger garden."
Neither of the sahibs answered, and he proceeded: "The gateman who was beaten is a brother to me; not a blood brother, sahib, but a tribe brother, for he is a Banjara of the Lumbani caste."
"By Jove!" The major clamped his jaws close after this involuntary exclamation and waited.
"Yes, sahib"—the Lumbani had noticed with satisfaction the major's start—"my brother has shown me the welts on his shoulder, such as are raised on a cart bullock, but he is not a bullock, being a Banjara."
There was a little silence, the native turning over in his mind something else he wished to say, trying to discover first what impression he had made, his shrewd eyes searching Finnerty's face for a sign. Suddenly, as if taking a plunge, he asked: "Does the sahib, who is a man, approve that the servant be beaten like a dog—even though the whip lay in the hands of a rajah?"
Finnerty hesitated. It is not well to give encouragement to a native against the ruling powers, whether they be black or white.