powder, he must talk about it in front of the Englishman.

When the brandy was brought Nana Sahib put hand over the top of his
glass.

"Not drinking, Prince?" Barlow asked.

"No," Nana Sahib answered, "a Brahmin must diet; holiness is fostered
by a shrivelled skin."

"But pardon me, Prince," Barlow said hesitatingly, "didn't going across
the black-water to England break your caste anyway--so why cut out the
peg?"

"Yes, Captain Sahib,"--the Prince's voice rasped with a peculiar harsh
gravity as though it were drawn over the jagged edge of intense
feeling,--"my caste _was_ broken, and to get it back I drank the dregs;
a cup of liquid from the cow, and not milk either!"

Baptiste coughed uneasily for he saw in the eyes of Nana Sahib
smouldering passion.

And Barlow's face was suffused with a sudden flush of embarrassment.

Perhaps it had been the sight of the blood sacrifice that had started
Nana Sahib on a line of bitter thought; had stirred the smothering hate
that was in his soul until frothing bubbles of it mounted to his lips.

"I was born in the shadow of Parvati," Nana Sahib said, "and when I
came back from England I found that still I was a Brahmin; that the