Save for his ardent eyes and
the handsome fanatical face of the man, he might have passed for a
lascar. He turned and half closed the door. The woman shrank from
him, but extending a lean brown hand he gripped her arm. His eyes
glittered feverishly.
"So!" he said, "we are all leaving England? Five of the Chinese sail
with the P. and O. boat to-night. Ali Khan goes to-morrow, and Rama
Dass, with Miguel, and the _Andaman_. I meet them at Singapore. But you?"
The woman raised her finger to her lips, glancing fearfully towards
the open door. But the Hindu, drawing her nearer, repeated with subdued
fierceness:
"I ask it again--but _you_?"
"I do not know," muttered the woman, keeping her head lowered and
moving in the direction of the steps.
But Chunda Lal intercepted her.
"Stop!" he said--"not yet are you going. There is something I have to
speak to you."
"Ssh!" she whispered, half turning and pointing up toward the door.
"Those!" said the Hindu contemptuously--"the poor slaves of the black
smoke! Ah! they are floating in their dream paradise; they have no
ears to hear, no eyes to see!" He grasped her wrist again. "They
contest for shadow smiles and dream kisses, but Chunda Lal have eyes
to see and ears to hear. He dream, too but of lips more sweet than
honey, of a voice like the Song of the Daood! _Inshalla!"_
Suddenly he clutched the grey hair of the bent old woman and with one
angry jerk snatched it from her head--for it was a cunning wig.
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