"No. We desire to earn our living, but have not yet decided whether to
join the army."
"You are from the plains?" the native said sharply, in their own
dialect.
"That is so," Dick replied.
"And yet you are Mohammedans?"
"Every one is Mohammedan here."
"Ah! Because it is the choice of 'death or Mohammed.' How comes it
that two young men should voluntarily leave their homes to enter this
tiger's den? You look honest youths. How come you here?"
"I trust that we are honest," Dick said. "We have assuredly not
ventured here without a reason, and that reason is a good one; but
this is not a city where one talks of such matters to a stranger in
the street, even though his face tells one that he can be trusted with
a secret."
The old man was silent for a minute; then he said:
"Come in, my sons. You can, as you say, trust me. I have a room that
you can occupy."
They followed him into the house, and he led them into a small room at
the back. It was poorly furnished, but was scrupulously clean. A pan
of lighted charcoal stood in one corner, and over this a pot of rice
was boiling.
"I bid you welcome," he said gravely.
And as the salutation was not one in use by the Mohammedans, Dick saw
that his idea that the old man was a Hindoo, who had been forced to
abjure his religion, was a correct one.
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