Patience

Umballa staggered to his feet, his sight blinded with tears of pain.
He was sober enough now, and Ahmed's final words rang in his ears like
a cluster of bells. "What a certain dungeon holds!" Stumbling down
the hill, urged by Ahmed's blows, only one thought occupied his mind:
to wreak his vengeance for these indignities upon an innocent girl.
But now a new fear entered his craven soul, craven as all cruel souls
are. Some one knew!

He fell into the arms of his troopers and they carried him to a litter,
thence to the palace. His back was covered with bruises, and but for
the thickness of his cummerbund he must have died under the beating,
which had been thorough and masterly. "What a certain dungeon holds!"
In his chamber Umballa called for his peg of brandy and champagne,
which for some reason did not take hold as usual. For the first time
in his life Durga Ram, so-called Umballa, knew what agony was. But did
it cause him to think with pity of the agonies he had caused them? Not
in the least.

When Ahmed rejoined his people Kathlyn was leaning against her father's
shoulder, smiling wanly.

"Where is Umballa?" cried Bruce, seizing Ahmed by the arm.

"On the way to the palace!" Ahmed laughed and told what he had
accomplished.

Bruce raised his hands in anger.

"But, Sahib!" began Ahmed, not comprehending.

"And, having him in your hands, you let him go!"

Ahmed stood dumfounded. His jaw sagged, his rifle slipped from his
hands and fell with a clank at his feet.