“Wait,” she said.  “I wish you to understand the enormity of your crime.”

“Crime?” with elevated eyebrows.

“Yes.  You have abducted me.”

“No.  You came of your own free will.”

“The white men of my race will not pause to argue over any such subtlety.  Marry you?  I do not like your color.”

A dull red settled under Umballa’s skin.

“I merely wish to warn you,” she went on, “that my blood will be upon your head.  And woe to you if it is.  There are white men who will not await the coming of the British Raj.”

“Ah, yes; some brave hardy American; Bruce Sahib, for instance.  Alas, he is in the Straits Settlements!  Seven days.”

“I am not afraid to die.”

“But there are many kinds of death,” and with this sinister reflection he stepped aside.

The multitude, seeing Kathlyn coming down from the dais, still surrounded by her cordon of troopers, began reluctantly to disperse.  “Bread and the circus!”—­the mobs will cry it down the ages; they will always pause to witness bloodshed, from a safe distance, you may be sure.  There was a deal of rioting in the bazaars that night, and many a measure of bhang and toddy kept the fires burning.  Oriental politics is like the winds of the equinox:  it blows from all directions.

The natives were taxed upon every conceivable subject, not dissimilar to the old days in Urdu, where a man paid so much for the privilege of squeezing the man under him.  Mutiny was afoot, rebellion, but it had not yet found a head.  The natives wanted a change, something to gossip about during the hot lazy afternoons, over their hookas and coffee.  To them reform meant change only, not the alleviation of some of their heavy burdens.  The talk of freeing slaves was but talk; slaves were lucrative investments; a man would be a fool to free them.  An old man, with a skin white like this new queen’s and hair like spun wool, dressed in a long black cloak and a broad brimmed hat, had started the agitation of liberating the slaves.  More than that, he carried no idol of his God, never bathed in the ghats, or took flowers to the temples, and seemed always silently communing with the simple iron cross suspended from his neck.  But he had died during the last visitation of the plague.

They had wearied of their tolerant king, who had died mysteriously; they were now wearied of the council and Umballa; in other words, they knew not what they wanted, being People.

Who was this fair-skinned woman who stood so straight before Umballa’s eye?  Whence had she come?  To be ruled by a woman who appeared to be tongue-tied!  Well, there were worse things than a woman who could not talk.  Thus they gabbled in the bazaars, round braziers and dung fires.  And some talked of the murder.  The proud Ramabai had been haled to prison; his banker’s gold had not saved him.  Oh, this street rat Umballa generally got what he wanted.  Ramabai’s wife was one of the beauties of Hind.