"Them--those cattle--I understand!" she said. "But it does not suit me that a Sikh, a Jat, a buffalo, should come here making mysteries of his own without consulting me! And what does not suit me I do not tolerate! Go, get that Afridi whom the soldier kicked--I told him to wait outside in the street until I sent for him." The Afridi came, nearly as helpless as the man who had drunk sherbet, though less tearful and almost infinitely more resentful. What clothing had not been torn from him was soaked in blood, and there was no inch of him that was not bruised. "Krishna!" said Yasmini impiously. "Allah!" swore the Afridi. "Who did it? What has happened?" "Outside in the street I said to some men who waited that Ranjoor Singh the Sikh is a bastard. From then until now they beat me, only leaving off to follow him hence when he came out through the door!" Yasmini laughed, peal upon peal of silver laughter--of sheer merriment. "The gods love Yasmini!" she chuckled. "Aye, the gods love me! The Jat spoke of a squadron; it is evident that he spoke truth. So his squadron watched him here! Go, _jungli_! Go, wash the blood away. Thou shalt have revenge! Come again to--morrow. Nay, go now, I would sleep when I have finished laughing. Aye--the gods love Yasmini!" The West Wind blows through the Ajmere Gate And whispers low (Oh, listen ye!), "The fed wolf curls by his drowsy mate In a tight--trod earth; but the lean wolves wait, And the hunger gnaws!" (Oh, listen ye!) "Can fed wolves fight? But yestere'en Their eyes were bright, their fangs were clean; They viewed, they took but yestere'en," (Oh, listen, wise heads, listen ye!) "Because they fed, is blood less red, Or fangs less sharp, or hunger dead?" (Look well to the loot, and listen ye!) YASMINI'S SONG CHAPTER III The colonel of Outram's Own dropped into a club where he was only one, and not the greatest, of many men entitled to respect. There were three men talking by a window, their voices drowned by the din of rain on the veranda roof, each of whom nodded to him. He chose, however, a solitary chair, for, though subalterns do not believe it, a colonel has exactly that diffidence about approaching senior civilians which a subaltern ought to feel. In a moment all that was visible of him from the door was a pair of brown riding-boots, very much fore-shortened, resting on the long arm of a cane chair, and two sets of wonderfully modeled fingers that held up a newspaper. From the window where the three men talked he could be seen in profile. "Wears well--doesn't he?" said one of them. "Swears well, too, confound him!" "Hah! Been trying to pump him, eh?" "Yes. He's like a big bird catching flies--picks off your questions one at a time, with one eye on you and the other one cocked for the next question. Get nothing out of him but yes or no. Good fellow, though, when you're not drawing him."