Rudyard Kipling : The Complete Novels and Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

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      ‘No, Sahib; the Queen.’

      ‘Which?’ repeated Tarvin.

      The figure was in the verandah at his side, almost whispering in his ear. ‘There is only one who would dare to leave the palace. It is the Gipsy.’

      Tarvin snapped his fingers blissfully and soundlessly in the dark, and made a little click of triumph with his tongue. ‘Pleasant calling hours the lady keeps,’ he said.

      ‘This is no place for speaking, Sahib. I was to say, “Come, unless you are afraid of the dark.”’

      ‘Oh, were you? Well, now, look here, Juggut; let’s talk this thing out. I’d like to see your friend Sitabhai. Where are you keeping her? Where do you want me to go?’

      ‘I was to say, “Come with me.” Are you afraid?’ The man spoke this time at his own prompting.

      ‘Oh, I’m afraid fast enough,’ said Tarvin, blowing a cloud of smoke from him. ‘It isn’t that.’

      ‘There are horses—very swift horses. It is the Queen’s order. Come with me.’

      Tarvin smoked on, unhurrying; and when he finally picked himself out of the chair it was muscle by muscle. He drew his revolver from his pocket, turned the chambers slowly one after another to the vague light, under Juggut Singh’s watchful eye, and returned it to his pocket again, giving his companion a wink as he did so.

      ‘Well, come on, Juggut,’ he said, and they passed behind the rest-house to a spot where two horses, their heads enveloped in cloaks to prevent them from neighing, were waiting at their pickets. The man mounted one, and Tarvin took the other silently, satisfying himself before getting into the saddle that the girths were not loose this time. They left the city road at a walking pace by a cart-track leading to the hills.

      ‘Now,’ said Juggut Singh, after they had gone a quarter of a mile in this fashion, and were alone under the stars, ‘we can ride.’

      He bowed forward, struck his stirrups home, and began lashing his animal furiously. Nothing short of the fear of death would have made the pampered eunuch of the palace ride at this pace.

      Tarvin watched him roll in the saddle, chuckled a little, and followed.

      ‘You wouldn’t make much of a cow-puncher, Juggut, would you?’

      ‘Ride!’ gasped Juggut Singh. ‘For the cleft between the two hills—ride!’

      The dry sand flew behind their horses’ hoofs, and the hot winds whistled about their ears as they headed up the easy slope toward the hills, three miles from the palace. In the old days, before the introduction of telegraphs, the opium speculators of the desert were wont to telegraph the rise and fall in the price of the drug from little beacon-towers on the hills. It was toward one of these disused stations that Juggut Singh was straining. The horses fell into a walk as the slope grew steeper, and the outline of the squat-domed tower began to show clear against the sky. A few moments later Tarvin heard the hoofs of their horses ring on solid marble, and saw that he was riding near the edge of a great reservoir, full of water to the lip.

      Eastward, a few twinkling lights in the open plain showed the position of Rhatore, and took him back to the night when he had said good-bye to Topaz from the rear platform of a Pullman. Night-fowl called to one another from the weeds at the far end of the tank, and a great fish leaped at the reflection of a star.

      ‘The watch-tower is at the further end of the am,’ said Juggut Singh, ‘The Gipsy is there.’

      ‘Will they never have done with that name?’ uttered an incomparably sweet voice out of the darkness. ‘It is well that I am of a gentle temper, or the fish would know more of thee, Juggut Singh.’

      Tarvin checked his horse with a jerk, for almost under his bridle stood a figure enveloped from head to foot in a mist of pale yellow gauze. It had started up from behind the red tomb of a once famous Rajput cavalier who was supposed by the country-side to gallop nightly round the dam he had built. This was one of the reasons why the Dungar Talao was not visited after nightfall.

      ‘Come down, Tarvin Sahib,’ said the voice mockingly in English. ‘I, at least, am not a grey ape. Juggut Singh, go wait with the horses below the watchtower.’

      ‘Yes, Juggut; and don’t go to sleep,’ enjoined Tarvin—‘we might want you.’ He alighted, and stood before the veiled form of Sitabhai.

      ‘Shekand,’ she said, after a little pause, putting out a hand that was smaller even than Kate’s.

      ‘Ah, Sahib, I knew that you would come. I knew that you were not afraid.’

      She held his hand as she spoke, and pressed it tenderly. Tarvin buried the tiny hand deep in his engulfing paw, and, pressing it in a grip that made her give an involuntary cry, shook it with a hearty motion.

      ‘Happy to make your acquaintance,’ he said, as she murmured under her breath, ‘By Indur, he has a hold!’

      ‘And I am pleased to see you, too,’ she answered aloud. Tarvin noted the music of the voice. He wondered what the face behind the veil might look like.

      She sat down composedly on the slab of the tomb, motioning him to a seat beside her.

      ‘All white men like straight talk,’ she said, speaking slowly, and with uncertain mastery of English pronunciation. ‘Tell me, Tarvin Sahib, how much you know.’

      She withdrew her veil as she spoke, and turned her face toward him. Tarvin saw that she was beautiful. The perception thrust itself insensibly between him and his other perceptions about her.

      ‘You don’t want me to give myself away, do you, Queen?’

      ‘I do not understand. But I know you do not talk like the other white men,’ she said sweetly.

      ‘Well, then, you don’t expect me to tell you the truth?’

      ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Else you would tell me why you are here. Why do you give me so much trouble?’

      ‘Do I trouble you?’

      Sitabhai laughed, throwing back her head, and clasping her hands behind her neck. Tarvin watched her curiously in the starlight. All his senses were alert; he was keenly on his guard, and he cast a wary eye about and behind him from time to time. But he could see nothing but the dull glimmer of the water that lapped at the foot of the marble steps, and hear nothing save the cry of the night-owls.

      ‘O Tarvin Sahib,’ she said. ‘You know! After the first time I was sorry.’

      ‘Which time was that?’ inquired Tarvin vaguely.

      ‘Of course it was when the saddle turned. And then when the timber fell from the archway I thought at least that I had maimed your horse. Was he hurt?’

      ‘No,’ said Tarvin, stupefied by her engaging frankness.

      ‘Surely you knew,’ she said almost reproachfully.

      He shook his head. ‘No, Sitabhai, my dear,’ СКАЧАТЬ