"That's reasonable enough." Amber returned undivided attention to the
Bengali. "Now then," he demanded sternly, "what've you got to say for
yourself? What do you mean by frightening this lady's horse? What are
you doing here, anyway?"

Almost grovelling, the babu answered him in Urdu: "Hazoor, I am your
slave--"

Without thinking Amber couched his retort in the same tongue: "Count
yourself lucky you are not, dog!"

"Nay, hazoor, but I meant no harm. I was resting, being fatigued, in
the shelter of the wood, when the noise of hoofs disturbed me and I
stepped out to see. When the woman was thrown I sought to assist her,
but she threatened me with her whip."

"That is quite true," the girl cut in over Amber's shoulder. "I don't
think he intended to harm me, but it's purely an accident that he
didn't."

Inasmuch as the babu's explanation had been made in fluent, vernacular
Urdu, Amber's surprise at the girl's evident familiarity with that
tongue was hardly to be concealed. "You understand Urdu?" he stammered.

"Aye," she told him in that tongue, "and speak it, too."

"You know this man, then?"

"No. Do you?"