The onyx-box was all that rewarded the scrutiny of the Rajah's servants.
"Open it!" he commanded, and forthwith the fatal casket was unclosed.
Golab Singh, bending over it, inhaled the strong and subtle odour that
had nearly overcome Atma the morning he received the box from the hands
of Nama at the sacred shrine. The Maharajah turned pale, and with
difficulty recovered his breath. "Miscreant!" cried the courtiers.
Now a paper was unfolded bearing the seal and superscription of the
Maharanee Junda Kowr, the dangerous foe of the British to whom Golab
Singh owed his throne.
"An emissary of the Ranee," cried some.
"A spy," shouted others, while Golab Singh had thoughts which it would
not have been prudent to utter aloud in that mixed assemblage.
"A despatch from the Ranee withheld by this traitor for who knows what
villainous purpose!"
"He shall pay the penalty," he thundered, "before the sun rise
to-morrow. Carry him bound to a dungeon!"
Now an Englishman who stood beside him touched the prisoner on the
shoulder. His face had grown stern, and he narrowly searched Atma's
countenance as he spoke gravely but gently enough. "Have you no word to
say, Atma Singh, when you are accused of playing so base a conspirator's
part against the life of your host and of your friends?"
Then Atma spoke and proudly, "No word, Sahib, which a Sikh may utter."
Excitement prevailed and great consternation. Englishmen exchanged
glances; plots, they believed, of an unguessed extent surrounded them.
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