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78 —
Stronger than Death
A tale of love and hate — of sacrifice and heroism — laid in mystic India.
By Robert W. Sneddon
At their head strode a priest bearing the sacred prayer wheel.
SMITHY ! They aren't such sticks after all. They must all have accepted my invitation."
The elderly companion of the lovely woman looked surprised.
"They recognize their own kind, my dear," she whispered with a cautious glance at the crowd of army officers, government officials, and the ladies of the army post gathered under the tented awning. Truth to tell, this little bit of England in far-off India had been most eager to come to the tea.
"Even if I am a dancer from the music halls of Paris and London?"
"You are a lady first, my dear."
"Thank you, Smithy. You are such a comfort. Tell me, how much money have we left ?"
"A thousand pounds."
Sigrid Fersen started and swayed.
"Oh, my dearie, your heart," cried the faithful Smithy.
"It's all right, Smithy dear. When that is gone, time enough to think of having to marry a rich man. Come and help me play hostess."
The slender figure came down from the steps of the bungalow.
"By Jove !" murmured a callow subaltern. "No wonder they went crazy over her at home. What do you say, padre?"
The regimental chaplain adjusted his glasses.
"She moves like a goddess. I might quote the origi
nal, but you have forgotten all that since your Eton days, my boy."
There was a moment in which Sigrid faced the battery of curious eyes, then there was a general movement toward her, and she was soon the center of a crowd which surrendered to her charm.
Soft-footed native servants were serving tea when a soldierly, elderly man walking somewhat unsteadily paused at the gate of the bungalow inclosure. As he did so, a tall, dark-skinned fellow in well-cut riding clothes, laid his hand on his arm.
"Why do you refuse to recognize me, Colonel Boucicault ?"
"Take your hand from my arm, you half-breed," snarled the colonel.
Barclay drew back with a flash of deadly hate in his dark eyes, and allowed the other to pass in.
"What is it?" asked Sigrid as the officer who had been talking to her paused in the middle of a sentence.
"Our colonel. They call him the Tiger Sahib," he whispered cautiously. "He's a martinet of cruelty and he never draws a sober breath now. Fine soldier though. It's a shame. His wife is a dear and his son Tristram is one of the best."
The colonel advanced and stared at her with inflamed eyes, then laughed coarsely.
"Since no one seems anxious to introduce me, Miss Fersen, allow me — Colonel Boucicault."