In its prime it held ten thousand men and filled
its ditches with corpses.
'At peril of his head,' sang Lalun again and again.
A head moved on one of the Ramparts--the gray head of an old man--and
a voice, rough as shark-skin on a sword-hilt, sent back the last line
of the chorus and broke into a song that I could not understand, though
Lalun and Wali Dad listened intently.
'What is it?' I asked. 'Who is it?'
'A consistent man,' said Wali Dad. 'He fought you in '46, when he was
a warrior-youth; refought you in '57, and he tried to fight you in
'71, but you had learned the trick of blowing men from guns too well.
Now he is old; but he would still fight if he could.'
'Is he a Wahabi, then? Why should he answer to a Mahratta _laonee_ if
he be Wahabi--or Sikh?' said I.
'I do not know,' said Wali Dad. 'He has lost, perhaps, his religion.
Perhaps he wishes to be a King. Perhaps he is a King. I do not know
his name.'
'That is a lie, Wali Dad. If you know his career you must know his
name.'
'That is quite true. I belong to a nation of liars. I would rather not
tell you his name. Think for yourself.
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