Worse still, he was making a pundit of that outcast
boy, who had been already too much favoured in the palace, so that
he might very well grow up to be Minister of the Treasury instead
of Rasso, son of Surji Rao--a thing unendurable. Surji Rao was the
fattest man in the State, so fat that it was said he sat down only
twice a day; but he lay awake on sultry nights for so many weeks
reflecting upon this, that he grew obviously, almost ostentatiously,
thin. To this he added such an extremely dolorous expression of
countenance that it was impossible for the Maharajah, out of sheer
curiosity, to refrain from asking him what was the matter.
'My father and my mother! I grow poor with thinking that the feet
of strangers are in the palace of the King, and what may come of
it.'
The Maharajah laughed and put his arm about the shoulders of Surji
Rao.
'I will give you a tub of melted butter to grow fat upon again, and
two days to eat it, though indeed with less on your bones you were
a better Rajput. What should come of it, Surji Rao?'
The Minister sheathed the anger that leapt up behind his eyes in a
smile. Then he answered gravely--
'What should come of it but more strangers? Is it not desired to
make a road for their guns and their horses? And talk and
treaties, and tying of the hand and binding of the foot, until at
last that great Jan Larrens[1] himself will ride up to the gate of
the city and refuse to go away until Your Highness sends a bag of
gold mohurs to the British Raj, as he has done before.
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