a single second.

"Or else, sahiba--I think you saw me slay the Maharati? Do you think
that I would stop at anything to accomplish what I had set out to do?
See, sahiba--there is a little blood there on your jacket! Let that
be for a pledge between us--for a sign--or a token of my oath that
on the day I am Maharajah Howrah, you are Maharanee--mistress of all
the jewels in the treasure-house!"

She shuddered. She did not look to find the blood; she took his word
for that, if for nothing else.

"I wonder you dare tell me that you plot against your brother!" That
was more a spoken thought than a statement or a question.

"I would be very glad if you would warn my brother!" he answered her;
and she knew like a flash, and on the instant, that what he said was
true. She had been warned before she came to bear no tales to any one.
No Oriental would believe the tale, coming from her; the Maharajah
would arrest her promptly, glad of the excuse to vent his hatred of
Christian missionaries. Jaimihr would attempt a rescue; it was common
knowledge that he plotted for the throne. There would be instant civil
war, in which the British Government would perforce back up the alleged
protector of a defenseless woman. There would be a new Maharajah;
then, in a little while, and in all likelihood, she would have
disappeared forever while the war raged. There would be, no doubt, a
circumstantial story of her death from natural causes.

She did not answer. She stared back at him, and he smiled down at her,
twisting at his mustache.