Why, then, should I throw myself
against a people who have brought my people prosperity, and who have
proved themselves in peace and war our masters in courage and wisdom?"
Behar Asor struggled up, galvanized by a storm of passion which shook his
fragile frame from head to foot.
"Thou art still no more than an ignorant boy," he exclaimed. "What knowest
thou of these things?"
"I have read of Englishmen whose deeds outrival the legends of Krishna,"
Nehal Singh answered thoughtfully. "They fought in your time, my father.
Thou knowest them better than I."
The old man ground his teeth together.
"They are dead." There was a reluctant admiration in his tone.
"Nevertheless, their sons live."
"The sons inherit not always the courage of their fathers," Behar Asor
answered, with a bitter significance.
Nehal Singh had wandered back to the throne, as though drawn thither by
some irresistible attraction, and stood there motionless, his arms folded
across his breast.
"Do not blame me," he said at last. "No man can go against himself. Were
it in my power, I would do thy will. As it is, without cause or reason I
can not draw my sword against men whose fathers have made my heart beat
with sympathy and admiration."
Behar Asor sank back in an attitude of absolute despair.
"I am accursed!" he said.
With a smothered sigh, Nehal Singh mounted the steps and seated himself.
In his attitude also there was a hopelessness--not indeed the hopelessness
of a man whose plans are thwarted, but of one who is keenly conscious that
he has no plans, no goal, no purpose.
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