The Adventures of Kathlyn

"But the method?"

Umballa smiled. "What brings the worshiper here with candles and

flowers and incense? Is it love or reverence or superstition?"

The bald yellow heads nodded like porcelain mandarins.

"Superstition," went on Umballa, "the sword which bends the knees of

the layman, has and always will through the ages!"

In the vault outside a bell tinkled, a gong boomed melodiously.

"When I give the sign," continued the schemer, "declare the curse upon

all those who do not bend. A word from your lips, and Ramabai's troops

vanish, reform and become yours and mine!"

"While the king lives?" asked the chief priest curiously.

"Ah!" And Umballa smiled again.

"But you, Durga Ram?"

"There is Ramabai, a senile king, and I. Which for your purposes will

you choose?"

There was a conference. The priests drifted away from Umballa. He did

not stir. His mien was proud and haughty, but for all that his knees

shook and his heart thundered. He understood that it was to be all or

nothing, no middle course, no half methods. He waited, wetting his

cracked and swollen lips. When the priests returned to him, their

heads bent before him a little. It represented a salaam, as much as

they had ever given to the king himself. A glow ran over Umballa.

"Highness, we agree. There will be terms."

"I will agree to them without question."

Life and power again; real power! These doddering fools should serve

him, thinking the while that they served themselves.

"Half the treasury must be paid to the temple."

"Agreed!" Half for the temple and half for himself; and the

abolishment of the seven leopards. "With this stipulation: Ramabai is

yours, but the white people are to be mine."

The priests signified assent.

And Umballa smiled in secret. Ramabai would be dead on the morrow.

"There remains the king," said the chief priest.

Umballa shrugged.

The chief priest stared soberly at the lamp above his head. The king

would be, then, Umballa's affair.

"He is ill?"

"He is moribund . . . Silence!" warned Umballa.

The curtains became violently agitated. They heard the voice of the

young priest outside raised in protest, to be answered by the shrill

tones of a woman.

"You are mad!"

"And thou art a stupid fool!"

Umballa's hand fell away from his dagger.

"It is a woman," he said. "Admit her."

The curtains were thrust aside, and the painted dancing girl, who had

saved Umballa from death or capture in the fire of his own contriving,

rushed in. Her black hair was studded with turquoise, a necklace of

amber gleamed like gold around her neck, and on her arms and ankles a

plentitude of silver bracelets and anklets. With her back to the

curtains, the young priest staring curiously over her shoulder, she

presented a picturesque tableau.