He was standing with the crimson kris in his hand above the dog. His
passion was frank, vigorous, and natural.

Boonda Broke smiled passively.

"You mean, could hit a man the same way, honoured lord."

"I mean what I said," answered the lad, and he turned on his heel; but
presently he faced about again, as though with a wish to give his foe the
benefit of any doubt. Though Boonda Broke was smiling, the lad's face
flushed again with anger, for the man's real character had been revealed
to him on the instant, and he was yet in the indignant warmth of the new
experience. If he had known that Boonda Broke had cultivated his
friendship for months, to worm out of him all the secrets of the
Residency, there might have been a violent and immediate conclusion to
the incident, for the lad was fiery, and he had no fear in his heart; he
was combative, high-tempered, and daring. Boonda Broke had learned no
secrets of him, had been met by an unconscious but steady resistance, and
at length his patience had given way in spite of himself. He had white
blood in his veins--fighting Irish blood--which sometimes overcame his
smooth, Oriental secretiveness and cautious duplicity; and this was one
of those occasions. He had flung the knife at the dog with a wish in his
heart that it was Cumner's Son instead. As he stood looking after the
English lad, he said between his teeth with a great hatred, though his
face showed no change:

"English dog, thou shalt be dead like thy brother there when I am Dakoon
of Mandakan."