'Hoosanee, it is neither fair nor right. Twice--three times--you have been in peril for me. You will become known. They will call you a spy--a spy of the Feringhees--and then what treatment can you hope for?' 'I can die, master,' said Hoosanee, nobly. 'That has been the fate of better men than I am in these last few days. But I do not think I shall die. I have that within me which says that I shall live to see these cruel days at an end. And does my master think that I will show the same face as I have done to these men? He must know little of the resources of the Indian. I will change myself so that my own father would not know me. Did my master know Subdul Khan when he went into the midst of the enemy's camp?' 'So you have heard of our adventure?' said Tom. Full of anguish as he was, he smiled faintly at the memory of that strange evening. 'Subdul was certainly sublime,' he went on. 'But you have only just come in, and he has left. How did you hear?' 'My master's friends are everywhere,' replied Hoosanee tranquilly. 'In all this region there is scarcely a village where they are not to be found. Byrajee Pirtha Raj, our revered ruler, was well known and warmly loved. Is not my master his true son?' 'If this is so,' said Tom, his voice trembling, 'if I have many friends amongst this people, is not that the more reason that I should go forth? I must, Hoosanee, I will. I tell you that if I stay I shall go mad.' For a few moments Hoosanee paused. Then he went nearer to his master and threw himself at his feet. 'Will my lord pardon me?' he said in a low and humble voice, 'if I speak the thing that is in my heart.' 'Say what you will, Hoosanee. After what you have done for me it would be strange if I could be angry with you. But get up and speak quickly,' said Tom. 'Before the night is over I must be gone.' 'Master, that is just it!' cried Hoosanee. 'Should my master go? Listen! My lord who has gone--the mighty and excellent Byrajee Pirtha Raj--was once in such a difficulty as this of my lord's. Duty to his State and the good of his people drew him one way. On the other side----' 'Hush, Hoosanee! I will not listen to you. I know what you would say. Chunder Singh has said it before you; but it is useless. Nay, if the voice----! Ah! Why did you recall it? I will be myself to-night. I will not be another.' He had been talking in Hindostanee. Suddenly he paused. The words of the language which in these last few weeks had become to him almost as familiar as his own fled from his lips. It was in English--the dear language that had been his from his infancy, the language in which he had learned, and dreamed, and loved, and suffered, in which he had fought his childish battles and won the praise of those who were dearer to him than his life--that the thoughts welling up hotly from his passionate heart found utterance.