"At peril of his head," said Wali Dad in English to me. "Thanks to your Government, all our heads are protected, and with the educational facilities at my command"—his eyes twinkled wickedly—"I might be a distinguished member of the local administration. Perhaps, in time, I might even be a member of a Legislative Council."
"Speak my talk," said Lalun, bending over her sitár afresh. The chorus went out from the City wall to the blackened wall of Fort Amara which dominates the City. No man knows the precise extent of Fort Amara. Three kings built it hundreds of years ago, and they say that there are miles of underground rooms beneath its walls. It is peopled with many ghosts, a detachment of Garrison Artillery and a company of Infantry. In its prime it held ten thousand men and filled its ditches with corpses.
"At peril of his head," sang Lalun again and again.
A head moved on one of the Ramparts—the grey head of an old man—and a voice, rough as a sharkskin on a swordhilt, sent back the last line of the chorus and broke into a song that I could not understand, though Lalun and Wali Dad listened intently.
"What is it?" I asked. "Who is it?"
"A consistent man," said Wali Dad. "He fought you in '46, when he was a warrior-youth; refought you in '57 and he tried to fight you in '71, but you had learned the trick of blowing men from guns too well. Now he is old; but he would still fight if he could."
"Is he a Wahabi, then? Why should he answer to a Mahratta laonee if he be Wahabi—or Sikh?" said I.
"I do not know," said Wali Dad. "He has lost, perhaps, his religion. Perhaps he wishes to be a King. Perhaps he is a King, I do not know his name."
"That is a lie, Wali Dad. If you know his career you must know his name."
"That is quite true. I belong to a nation of liars. I would rather not tell you his name. Think for yourself."
