"And that's how you got those poor hands!" exclaimed Kathlyn, kissing
the scars which stood out white against the tan.
"That's how," raising the hands and putting them on Kathlyn's head in a
kind of benediction.
"Is that all?" asked Winnie breathlessly.
"Isn't that enough?" he retorted. "Well, what is it, Martha? Dinner?
Well, if I haven't cheated you girls out of your tea!"
"Tea!" sniffed Winnie disdainfully. "Do you know, dad, you're awfully
mean to Kit and me. If you'd take the trouble you could be more
interesting than any book I ever read."
"He doesn't believe his stories would interest vain young ladies," said
Kathlyn gravely.
Her father eyed her sharply. Of what was she thinking? In those calm
unwavering eyes of hers he saw a question, and he feared in his soul
she might voice it. He could evade the questions of the volatile
Winnie, but there was no getting by Kathlyn with evasions. Frowning,
he replaced the order in the box, which he put away in a drawer. It
was all arrant nonsense, anyhow; nothing could possibly happen; if
there did, he would feel certain that he no longer dwelt in a real
workaday world. The idle whim of a sardonic old man; nothing more than
that.
"Father, is the king dead?"
"Dead! What makes you ask that, Kit?"
"The past tense; you said he was, not is."
"Yes, he's dead, and the news came this morning. Hence, the yarn."
"Will there be any danger in returning?"
"My girl, whenever I pack my luggage there is danger. A cartridge may
stick; a man may stumble; a man you rely on may fail you. As for that,
there's always danger. It's the penalty of being alive."
On the way to the dining-room Kathlyn thought deeply. Why had her
father asked them if they loved him? Why did he speak of the Big Trek?
There was something more than this glittering medal, something more
than this simple tale of bravery. What? Well, if he declined to take
her into his confidence he must have good reason.
After dinner that night the colonel went the rounds, as was his habit
nightly. By and by he returned to the bungalow, but did not enter. He
filled his cutty and walked to and fro in the moonlight, with his head
bent and his hands clasped behind his back. There was a restlessness
in his stride not unlike that of the captive beasts in the cages near
by. Occasionally he paused at the clink clink of the elephant irons or
at the "whuff" as the uneasy pachyderm poured dust on his head.
Bah! It was madness. A parchment in Hindustani, given jestingly or
ironically by a humorous old chap in orders and white linen and
rhinoceros sandals. . . . A throne! Pshaw! It was bally nonsense.
As if a white man could rule over a brown one by the choice of the
latter! And yet, that man Umballa's face, when he had shown the king
the portraits of his two lovely daughters! He would send Ahmed. Ahmed
knew the business as well as he did. He would send his abdication to
the council, giving them the right to choose his successor. He himself
would remain home with the girls. Then he gazed up at the moon and
smiled grimly.