It would be no more than natural if he were.

Ralston had pondered the question with an uncomfortable vision before his eyes, evoked by certain words of Colonel Dewes--a youth appealing for help, for the only help which could be of service to him, and then, as the appeal was rejected, composing his face to a complete and stolid inexpressiveness, no longer showing either his pain or his desire--reverting, as it were, from the European to the Oriental.
"Yes, there is that danger," he admitted.

"Seeking to restore a friend, we might kindle an enemy." And then he rose up and suddenly burst out: "But upon my word, were that to come to pass, we should deserve it.

For we are to blame--we who took him from Chiltistan and sent him to be petted by the fine people in England." And once more it was evident from his words that he was thinking not of Shere Ali--not of the human being who had just his one life to live, just his few years with their opportunities of happiness, and their certain irrevocable periods of distress--but of the Prince of Chiltistan who might or might not be a cause of great trouble to the Government of the Punjab.
"We must take the risk," he cried as one arguing almost against himself.
"It's the only chance.

So we must take the risk.