Behind the Curtains

The curtain fell behind the man in tatters, and he remained motionless
for a space. A low murmuring among the priests ensued, and presently
one of their number--the youngest--passed out and stationed himself
before the curtain. Not even a privileged dancing girl might enter now.

The man in tatters stepped forward. He became the center of the group;
his gestures were quick, tense, authoritative. At length priest
turned to priest, and the wrinkled faces became more wrinkled still:
smiles.

"Highness," said the eldest, "we had thought of this, but you did not
make us your confidant."

"Till an hour gone it had not occurred to me. Shall Ramabai, then,
become your master, to set forth the propaganda of the infidel?"

"No!" The word was not spoken loudly, but sibilantly, with something
resembling a hiss. "No!"

"And shall a king who has no mind, no will, no strength, resume his
authority? Perhaps to bring more white people into Allaha, perhaps to
give Allaha eventually to the British Raj?"

Again the negative.

"But the method?"

Umballa smiled. "What brings the worshiper here with candles and
flowers and incense? Is it love or reverence or superstition?"

The bald yellow heads nodded like porcelain mandarins.

"Superstition," went on Umballa, "the sword which bends the knees of
the layman, has and always will through the ages!"

In the vault outside a bell tinkled, a gong boomed melodiously.

"When I give the sign," continued the schemer, "declare the curse upon
all those who do not bend. A word from your lips, and Ramabai's troops
vanish, reform and become yours and mine!"