Perhaps it had been the sight of the blood sacrifice that had started
Nana Sahib on a line of bitter thought; had stirred the smothering hate
that was in his soul until frothing bubbles of it mounted to his lips.
"I was born in the shadow of Parvati," Nana Sahib said, "and when I
came back from England I found that still I was a Brahmin; that the
songs of the Bhagavad Gita and the philosophy of the Puranas was more
to me than what I had been taught at Oxford. So I took back the caste,
and under my shirt is the _junwa_ (sacred thread)."
A quick smile lighted his face, and he laid a hand on Barlow's arm,
saying in a new voice, a voice that was as if some one spoke through
his lips in ventriloquism: "And all this, Captain, is a good thing for
my friends the English. The Brahmins, as you know, sway the Mahrattas,
and if I am of them they will listen to me. The English boast--and
they have reason to--that they have made a friend of Nana Sahib. Here,
Baptiste, pour me a glass of plain soda, and we'll drink a toast to
Nana Sahib and the English.
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