Maharajah sat at luncheon. He purposely did not change his easy attitude
when the English resident approached, and the glaring look which his
dark eyes cast at the incomer was obviously intended to intimidate.

With his helmet on his head and his hand resting on his sword the
Colonel stood straight before the Prince.

"I desire to have a few words with you, Maharajah!"

"And I have instructed my servants to inform you that I am not at your
service. You see I am at luncheon!"

"That, in your case, is no reason for refusing to receive the
representative of His Britannic Majesty. The message you sent me was an
insult, which, if repeated, will have to be punished."

In a transport of rage the Prince sprang up from his chair. He hurled an
abusive epithet into the Colonel's face, and his right hand sought the
dagger in his belt. The attendant, who was about to serve up to his
master a ruddy lobster on a silver dish, recoiled in alarm. But the
Colonel, without moving an inch from his place, placed the silver
hunting whistle that hung from his shoulder to his mouth. Two shrill
calls, and at once the trotting of horses and the rattle of arms was
audible. The high, blue-striped turbans of the cavalry and the pennons
of their lances made their appearance under the terrace.

"Call my bodyguard!" cried the Prince, with a voice hoarse with rage.

But in a voice of icy calm the Colonel retorted, "If you summon your
bodyguard, Maharajah, you are a dead man. That would be rebellion; and