Ballads and Barrack-Room Ballads

Front matter

BALLADS

AND

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS

The Ballad of East and West

THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST

ppoem|end=follow| {italic} Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth!

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side, And he has lifted the Colonel’s mare that is the Colonel’s pride: He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.

Then up and spoke the Colonel’s son that led a troop of the Guides: ‘Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?’ Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son-of the Ressaldar, ‘If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. ‘At dusk he harries the Abazai—at dawn he is into Bonair, ‘But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, ‘So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, ‘By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai, ‘But if he be passed the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, ‘For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal’s men. ‘There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, ‘And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.’

The Colonel’s son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell, and the head of the gallows-tree. The Colonel’s son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat— Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. He’s up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, Till he was aware of his father’s mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai, Till he was aware of his father’s mare with Kamal upon her back, And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. ‘Ye shoot like a soldier,’ Kamal said. ‘Show now if ye can ride.’ It’s up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go, The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.

The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove. There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho’ never a man was seen. They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. The dun he fell at a water-course—in a woful heap fell he, And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. He has knocked the pistol out of his hand—small room was there to strive, ‘’Twas only by favour of mine,’ quoth he, ‘ye rode so long alive: ‘There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, ‘But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.

‘If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, ‘The little jackals that flee so fast, were feasting all in a row: ‘If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, ‘The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.’ Lightly answered the Colonel’s son:—‘Do good to bird and beast, ‘But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. ‘If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, ‘Belike the price of a jackal’s meal were more than a thief could pay. ‘They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain, ‘The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. ‘But if thou thinkest the price be fair,—thy brethren wait to sup, ‘The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn,—howl, dog, and call them up!

‘And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, ‘Give me my father’s mare again, and I’ll fight my own way back!’ Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. ‘No talk shall be of dogs,’ said he, ‘when wolf and grey wolf meet. ‘May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; ‘What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?’ Lightly answered the Colonel’s son: ‘I hold by the blood of my clan: ‘Take up the mare for my father’s gift—by God, she has carried a man!’ The red mare ran to the Colonel’s son, and nuzzled against his breast, ‘We be two strong men,’ said Kamal then, ‘but she loveth the younger best. ‘So she shall go with a lifter’s dower, my turquoise-studded rein, ‘My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.’

The Colonel’s son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, ‘Ye have taken the one from a foe,’ said he; ‘will ye take the mate from a friend?’ ‘A gift for a gift,’ said Kamal straight; ‘a limb for the risk of a limb. ‘Thy father has sent his son to me, I’ll send my son to him!’ With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest— He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. ‘Now here is thy master,’ Kamal said, ‘who leads a troop of the Guides, ‘And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. ‘Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, ‘Thy life is his—thy fate it is to guard him with thy head. ‘So thou must eat the White Queen’s meat, and all her foes are thine, ‘And thou must harry thy father’s hold for the peace of the Border-line,

‘And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power— ‘Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.’

They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault, They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt: They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God. The Colonel’s son he rides the mare and Kamal’s boy the dun, And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear— There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. ‘Ha’ done! ha’ done!’ said the Colonel’s son. ‘Put up the steel at your sides!

ppoem|start=follow| ‘Last night ye had struck at a Border thief—tonight ’tis a man of the Guides!’

{italic} Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the two shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth.

The Last Suttee

THE LAST SUTTEE

Not many years ago a King died in one of the Rajpoot States. His wives, disregarding the orders of the English against , would have broken out of the palace had not the gates been barred. But one of them, disguised as the King’s favourite dancing-girl, passed through the line of guards and reached the pyre. There, her courage failing, she prayed her cousin, a baron of the court, to kill her. This he did, not knowing who she was.

Udai Chand lay sick to death In his hold by Gungra hill. All night we heard the death-gongs ring For the soul of the dying Rajpoot King, All night beat up from the women’s wing A cry that we could not still.

All night the barons came and went, The lords of the outer guard: All night the cressets glimmered pale On Ulwar sabre and Tonk jezail, Mewar headstall and Marwar mail, That clinked in the palace yard.

In the Golden room on the palace roof All night he fought for air: And there was sobbing behind the screen, Rustle and whisper of women unseen, And the hungry eyes of the Boondi Queen On the death she might not share.

He passed at dawn—the death-fire leaped From ridge to river-head, From the Malwa plains to the Abu scaurs: And wail upon wail went up to the stars Behind the grim zenana-bars, When they knew that the King was dead.

The dumb priest knelt to tie his mouth And robe him for the pyre. The Boondi Queen beneath us cried: ‘See, now, that we die as our mothers died ‘In the bridal-bed by our master’s side! ‘Out, women!—to the fire!’

We drove the great gates home apace: White hands were on the sill:

But ere the rush of the unseen feet Had reached the turn to the open street, The bars shot down, the guard-drum beat— We held the dove-cot still.

A face looked down in the gathering day, And laughing spoke from the wall: ‘Ohé, they mourn here: let me by— ‘Azizun, the Lucknow nautch-girl, I? ‘When the house is rotten, the rats must fly, ‘And I seek another thrall.

‘For I ruled the King as ne’er did Queen,— ‘To-night the Queens rule me! ‘Guard them safely, but let me go, ‘Or ever they pay the debt they owe ‘In scourge and torture!’ She leaped below, And the grim guard watched her flee.

They knew that the King had spent his soul On a North-bred dancing-girl: That he prayed to a flat-nosed Lucknow god, And kissed the ground where her feet had trod, And doomed to death at her drunken nod And swore by her lightest curl.

We bore the King to his fathers’ place, Where the tombs of the Sun-born stand: Where the grey apes swing, and the peacocks preen On fretted pillar and jewelled screen, And the wild boar couch in the house of the Queen On the drift of the desert sand.

The herald read his titles forth, We set the logs aglow: ‘Friend of the English, free from fear, ‘Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer, ‘Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer, ‘King of the Jungle,—go!’

All night the red flame stabbed the sky With wavering wind-tossed spears: And out of a shattered temple crept A woman who veiled her head and wept, And called on the King—but the great King slept, And turned not for her tears.

Small thought had he to mark the strife— Cold fear with hot desire—

When thrice she leaped from the leaping flame, And thrice she beat her breast for shame, And thrice like a wounded dove she came And moaned about the fire.

One watched, a bow-shot from the blaze, The silent streets between, Who had stood by the King in sport and fray, To blade in ambush or boar at bay, And he was a baron old and grey, And kin to the Boondi Queen.

He said: ‘O shameless, put aside ‘The veil upon thy brow! ‘Who held the King and all his land ‘To the wanton will of a harlot’s hand! ‘Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand? ‘Stoop down, and call him now!’

Then she: ‘By the faith of my tarnished soul, ‘All things I did not well ‘I had hoped to clear ere the fire died, ‘And lay me down by my master’s side ‘To rule in Heaven his only bride, ‘While the others howl in Hell.

‘But I have felt the fire’s breath, ‘And hard it is to die! ‘Yet if I may pray a Rajpoot lord ‘To sully the steel of a Thakur’s sword ‘With base-born blood of a trade abhorred,’— And the Thakur answered, ‘Ay.’

He drew and struck: the straight blade drank The life beneath the breast. ‘I had looked for the Queen to face the flame, ‘But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dame— ‘Sister of mine, pass, free from shame. ‘Pass with thy King to rest!’

The black log crashed above the white: The little flames and lean, Red as slaughter and blue as steel, That whistled and fluttered from head to heel, Leaped up anew, for they found their meal On the heart of—the Boondi Queen!

The Ballad of the King's Mercy

THE BALLAD OF THE KING’S MERCY

ppoem|end=follow| {italic}

Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told.

His mercy fills the Khyber hills—his grace is manifold;

He has taken toll of the North and the South—his glory reacheth far,

And they tell the tale of his charity from Balkh to Kandahar.

Before the old Peshawur Gate, where Kurd and Kaffir meet, The Governor of Kabul dealt the Justice of the Street, And that was strait as running noose and swift as plunging knife, Tho’ he who held the longer purse might hold the longer life.

There was a hound of Hindustan had struck a Euzuizai, Wherefore they spat upon his face and led him out to die. It chanced the King went forth that hour when throat was bared to knife; The Kaffir grovelled under-hoof and clamoured for his life.

Then said the King: ‘Have hope, O friend! Yea, Death disgraced is hard; ‘Much honour shall be thine’; and called the Captain of the Guard, Yar Khan, a bastard of the Blood, so city-babble saith, And he was honoured of the King—the which is salt to Death; And he was son of Daoud Shah the Reiver of the Plains, And blood of old Durani Lords ran fire in his veins; And ’twas to tame an Afghan pride nor Hell nor Heaven could bind, The King would make him butcher to a yelping cur of Hind.

ppoem|start=stanza|end=follow| ‘Strike!’ said the King. ‘King’s blood art thou—his death shall be his pride!’ Then louder, that the crowd might catch: ‘Fear not—his arms are tied!’ Yar Khan drew clear the Khyber knife, and struck, and sheathed again. ‘O man, thy will is done,’ quoth he; ‘A King this dog hath slain.’

{italic}

Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, to the North and the South is sold.

The North and the South shall open their mouth to a Ghilzai flag unrolled,

When the big guns speak to the Khyber peak, and his dog-Heratis fly,

Ye have heard the song—How long? How long? Wolves of the Abazai!

That night before the watch was set, when all the streets were clear, The Governor of Kabul spoke: ‘My King, hast thou no fear? ‘Thou knowest—thou hast heard,’—his speech died at his master’s face.

And grimly said the Afghan King: ‘I rule the Afghan race. ‘My path is mine—see thou to thine—to-night upon thy bed ‘Think who there be in Kabul now that clamour for thy head.’

That night when all the gates were shut to City and to Throne, Within a little garden-house the King lay down alone. Before the sinking of the moon, which is the Night of Night, Yar Khan came softly to the King to make his honour white. The children of the town had mocked beneath his horse’s hoofs, The harlots of the town had hailed him ‘butcher!’ from their roofs. But as he groped against the wall, two hands upon him fell, The King behind his shoulder spoke: ‘Dead man, thou dost not well!

ppoem|start=follow|end=follow| ‘Tis ill to jest with Kings by day and seek a boon by night; ‘And that thou bearest in thy hand is all too sharp to write. ‘But three days hence, if God be good, and if thy strength remain, ‘Thou shalt demand one boon of me and bless me in thy pain. ‘For I am merciful to all, and most of all to thee. ‘My butcher of the shambles, rest—no knife hast thou for me!’

{italic}

Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, holds hard by the South and the North;

But the Ghilsai knows, ere the melting snows, when the swollen banks break forth,

When the red-coats crawl to the sungar wall, and his Usbeg lances fail.

Ye have heard the song—How long? How long? Wolves of the Zuka Kheyl!

They stoned him in the rubbish-field when dawn was in the sky, According to the written word, ‘See that he do not die.’

They stoned him till the stones were piled above him on the plain, And those the labouring limbs displaced they tumbled back again.

One watched beside the dreary mound that veiled the battered thing, And him the King with laughter called the Herald of the King.

It was upon the second night, the night of Ramazan, The watcher leaning earthward heard the message of Yar Khan. From shattered breast through shrivelled lips broke forth the rattling breath: ‘Creature of God, deliver me from agony of Death.’

They sought the King among his girls, and risked their lives thereby: ‘Protector of the Pitiful, give orders that he die!’

‘Bid him endure until the day,’ a lagging answer came; ‘The night is short, and he can pray and learn to bless my name.’

ppoem|start=follow| Before the dawn three times he spoke, and on the day once more: ‘Creature of God, deliver me and bless the King therefore!’

They shot him at the morning prayer, to ease him of his pain, And when he heard the matchlocks clink, he blessed the King again.

Which thing the singers made a song for all the world to sing, So that the Outer Seas may know the mercy of the King.

{italic}

Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told.

He has opened his mouth to the North and the South, they have stuffed his mouth with gold.

Ye know the truth of his tender ruth—and sweet his favours are.

Ye have heard the song—How long? How long? from Balkh to Kandahar.

The Ballad of the King's Jest

THE BALLAD OF THE KING’S JEST

When spring-time flushes the desert grass, Our kafilas wind through the Khyber Pass. Lean are the camels but fat the frails, Light are the purses but heavy the bales, As the snowbound trade of the North comes down To the market-square of Peshawur town.

In a turquoise twilight, crisp and chill, A kafila camped at the foot of the hill. Then blue smoke-haze of the cooking rose, And tentpeg answered to hammer-nose; And the picketed ponies shag and wild, Strained at their ropes as the feed was piled; And the bubbling camels beside the load Sprawled for a furlong adown the road; And the Persian pussy-cats, brought for sale, Spat at the dogs from the camel-bale; And the tribesmen bellowed to hasten the food;

And the camp-fires twinkled by Fort Jumrood; And there fled on the wings of the gathering dusk A savour of camels and carpets and musk, A murmur of voices, a reek of smoke, To tell us the trade of the Khyber woke.

The lid of the flesh-pot chattered high, The knives were whetted and—then came I To Mahbub Ali, the muleteer, Patching his bridles and counting his gear, Crammed with the gossip of half a year. But Mahbub Ali the kindly said, ‘Better is speech when the belly is fed.’ So we plunged the hand to the mid-wrist deep In a cinnamon stew of the fat-tailed sheep, And he who never hath tasted the food, By Allah! he knoweth not bad from good.

We cleansed our beards of the mutton-grease, We lay on the mats and were filled with peace, And the talk slid north, and the talk slid south, With the sliding puffs from the hookah-mouth. Four things greater than all things are,— Women and Horses and Power and War. We spake of them all, but the last the most,

For I sought a word of a Russian post, Of a shifty promise, an unsheathed sword And a grey-coat guard on the Helmund ford. Then Mahbub Ali lowered his eyes In the fashion of one who is weaving lies. Quoth he: ‘Of the Russians who can say? ‘When the night is gathering all is grey. ‘But we look that the gloom of the night shall die ‘In the morning flush of a blood-red sky. ‘Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise ‘To warn a King of his enemies? ‘We know what Heaven or Hell may bring, ‘But no man knoweth the mind of the King. ‘That unsought counsel is cursed of God ‘Attesteth the story of Wali Dad.

‘His sire was leaky of tongue and pen, ‘His dam was a clucking Khuttuck hen; ‘And the colt bred close to the vice of each, ‘For he carried the curse of an unstaunched speech. ‘Therewith madness—so that he sought ‘The favour of kings at the Kabul court; ‘And travelled, in hope of honour, far ‘To the line where the grey-coat squadrons are. ‘There have I journeyed too—but I

‘Saw naught, said naught, and—did not die! ‘He hearked to rumour, and snatched at a breath ‘Of “this one knoweth” and “that one saith,”— ‘Legends that ran from mouth to mouth ‘Of a grey-coat coming, and sack of the South. ‘These have I also heard—they pass ‘With each new spring and the winter grass.

‘Hot-foot southward, forgotten of God, ‘Back to the city ran Wali Dad, ‘Even to Kabul—in full durbar ‘The King held talk with his Chief in War. ‘Into the press of the crowd he broke, ‘And what he had heard of the coming spoke.

‘Then Gholam Hyder, the Red Chief, smiled, ‘As a mother might on a babbling child; ‘But those who would laugh restrained their breath, ‘When the face of the King showed dark as death. ‘Evil it is in full durbar ‘To cry to a ruler of gathering war! ‘Slowly he led to a peach-tree small, ‘That grew by a cleft of the city wall. ‘And he said to the boy: “They shall praise thy zeal ‘“So long as the red spurt follows the steel.

‘“And the Russ is upon us even now? ‘“Great is thy prudence—await them, thou. ‘“Watch from the tree. Thou art young and strong, ‘“Surely thy vigil is not for long. ‘“The Russ is upon us, thy clamour ran? ‘“Surely an hour shall bring their van. ‘“Wait and watch. When the host is near, ‘“Shout aloud that my men may hear.”

‘Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise ‘To warn a King of his enemies? ‘A guard was set that he might not flee— ‘A score of bayonets ringed the tree. ‘The peach-bloom fell in showers of snow, ‘When he shook at his death as he looked below. ‘By the power of God, who alone is great, ‘Till the seventh day he fought with his fate. ‘Then madness took him, and men declare ‘He mowed in the branches as ape and bear, ‘And last as a sloth, ere his body failed, ‘And he hung as a bat in the forks, and wailed, ‘And sleep the cord of his hands untied, ‘And he fell, and was caught on the points and died.

‘Heart of my heart, is it meet or wise ‘To warn a King of his enemies?

‘We know what Heaven or Hell may bring, ‘But no man knoweth the mind of the King. ‘Of the grey-coat coming who can say? ‘When the night is gathering all is grey. ‘Two things greater than all things are, ‘The first is Love, and the second War. ‘And since we know not how War may prove, ‘Heart of my heart, let us talk of Love!’

With Scindia to Delhi

WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI

More than a hundred years ago, in a great battle fought near Delhi, an Indian Prince rode fifty miles after the day was lost with a beggar-girl, who had loved him and followed him in all his camps, on his saddle-bow. He lost the girl when almost within sight of safety. A Maratta trooper tells the story:—

The wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck, Our hands and scarves were saffron-dyed for signal of despair, When we went forth to Paniput to battle with the Mlech,— Ere we came back from Paniput and left a kingdom there.

Thrice thirty-thousand men were we to force the Jumna fords— The hawk-winged horse of Damajee, mailed squadrons of the Bhao,

Stark levies of the southern hills, the Deccan’s sharpest swords, And he the harlot’s traitor son the goatherd Mulhar Rao!

Thrice thirty-thousand men were we before the mists had cleared, The low white mists of morning heard the war-conch scream and bray; We called upon Bhowani and we gripped them by the beard, We rolled upon them like a flood and washed their ranks away.

The children of the hills of Khost before our lances ran, We drove the black Rohillas back as cattle to the pen; ’Twas then we needed Mulhar Rao to end what we began, A thousand men had saved the charge; he fled the field with ten!

There was no room to clear a sword—no power to strike a blow, For foot to foot, ay, breast to breast, the battle held us fast— Save where the naked hill men ran and stabbing from below Brought down the horse and rider and we trampled them and passed.

To left the roar of musketry rang like a falling flood— To right the sunshine rippled red from redder lance and blade— Above the dark Upsaras flew, beneath us plashed the blood, And, bellying black against the dust, the Bhagwa Jhanda swayed.

I saw it fall in smoke and fire, the banner of the Bhao; I heard a voice across the press of one who called in vain:—

‘Ho! Anand Rao Nimbalkhur ride! Get aid of Mulhar Rao! ‘Go shame his squadrons into fight—the Bhao—the Bhao is slain!’

Thereat, as when a sand-bar breaks in clotted spume and spray— When rain of later autumn sweeps the Jumna water-head, Before their charge from flank to flank our riven ranks gave way; But of the waters of that flood the Jumna fords ran red.

I held by Scindia, my lord, as close as man might hold; A Soobah of the Deccan asks no aid to guard his life; But Holkar’s Horse were flying, and our chiefest chiefs were cold, And like a flame among us leapt the long lean Northern knife.

I held by Scindia—my lance from butt to tuft was dyed, The froth of battle bossed the shield and roped the bridle-chain— What time beneath our horses’ feet a maiden rose and cried, And clung to Scindia, and I turned a sword-cut from the twain.

(He set a spell upon the maid in woodlands long ago, A hunter by the Tapti banks she gave him water there: He turned her heart to water, and she followed to her woe. What need had he of Lalun who had twenty maids as fair?)

Now in that hour strength left my lord; he wrenched his mare aside; He bound the girl behind him and we slashed and struggled free.

Across the reeling wreck of strife we rode as shadows ride From Paniput to Delhi town, but not alone were we.

’Twas Lutuf-Ullah Populzai laid horse upon our track, A swine-fed reiver of the North that lusted for the maid; I might have barred his path awhile, but Scindia called me back, And I—Oh woe for Scindia!—I listened and obeyed.

League after league the formless scrub took shape and glided by— League after league the white road swirled behind the white mare’s feet— League after league, when leagues were done, we heard the Populzai, Where sure as Time and swift as Death the tireless footfall beat.

Noon’s eye beheld that shame of flight, the shadows fell, we fled Where steadfast as the wheeling kite he followed in our train; The black wolf warred where we had warred, the jackal mocked our dead, And terror born of twilight tide made mad the labouring brain.

I gasped:—‘A kingdom waits my lord; her love is but her own. A day shall mar, a day shall cure for her, but what for thee? ‘Cut loose the girl: he follows fast. Cut loose and ride alone!’ Then Scindia ’twixt his blistered lips:—‘My Queens’ Queen shall she be!

‘Of all who eat my bread last night ’twas she alone that came ‘To seek her love between the spears and find her crown therein!

‘One shame is mine to-day, what need the weight of double shame? ‘If once we reach the Delhi gate, though all be lost, I win!’

We rode—the white mare failed—her trot a staggering stumble grew,— The cooking-smoke of even rose and weltered and hung low; And still we heard the Populzai and still we strained anew, And Delhi town was very near, but nearer was the foe.

Yea, Delhi town was very near when Lalun whispered:—‘Slay! ‘Lord of my life, the mare sinks fast—stab deep and let me die!’ But Scindia would not, and the maid tore free and flung away, And turning as she fell we heard the clattering Populzai.

Then Scindia checked the gasping mare that rocked and groaned for breath, And wheeled to charge and plunged the knife a hands-breadth in her side— The hunter and the hunted know how that last pause is death— The blood had chilled about her heart, she reared and fell and died.