“Then of course I will go with you,” said Mrs. Sadgrove, guessing whose that life was from Alec Forsyth’s early call. “The Shermans, dear people, will be delighted to stay in a duke’s historic mansion, even if the invitation is a little irregular, for are they not Americans? I will go to the morning-room and break it to them.”
“Without a hint of what is brewing, mind,” said the General, and vanished into his own den. He sat for a while in thought, and presently rang the bell. It was answered by a tall Oriental in native costume and turban, who made low obeisance, but listlessly, as though bored to death. As he straightened himself, however, his coal-black eyes, raised deferentially to his master’s, blazed into sudden fire.
“Allah be praised! The black tribe walks again!” he cried in his vernacular, reading the sign as easily as Mrs. Sadgrove had done.
“Yes, Azimoolah, the black tribe walks. We go to pit cunning against cunning and right against wrong, you and I, as in the days when we rode the jungle-paths under the Indian moon,” the General replied in the same tongue. “Art glib of speech and handy with those iron arms of thine, as in the old times
[126]
