f a world full of bees. And the night palpitated with the
beat of horses' feet upon the hard sand and against the stony ford of
the parched river as the Pindari horsemen swept to Rajgar as if they
rode in the sack of a city.

Hoarse bull-throated cries calling the curse of Allah upon the murderer
were like a deep-voiced hymn of hate--it was continuous.

The _bunnias_, and the oilmen, and the keepers of cookshops hid their
wares and crept into dark places to hide. The flickering oil lamps
were blotted out; but some of the Pindaris had fastened torches to
their long spears, and the fluttering lights waved and circled like
shooting stars.

Rajgar was a Shoel; it was as if from the teak forests and the jungles
of wild mango had rushed its full holding of tigers, and leopards, and
elephants, and screaming monkeys.

Soon a wedge of cavalry, a dozen wild-eyed horsemen, pushed their way
through the struggling mob, at their head the jamadar bellowing: "Make
way--make the road clean of your bodies."

"They bring the Afghan!" somebody cried and pointed to where Barlow sat
strapped to the saddle of his Beluchi mare.

"It is the one who killed the Chief!" another yelped; and the cries
rippled along from mouth to mouth; _tulwars_ flashed in the light of
the lurid torches as they swept upward at the end of long arms
threateningly; but the jamadar roared: "Back, back! you're like jackals
snapping and snarling. Back! if the one is killed how shall we know
the truth?"

One, an old man, yelled triumphantly: "Allah be praised! a wisdom--a
wisdom! The torture; the horse-bucket and the hot ashes! The jamadar
will have the truth out of the Afghan. Allah be praised! it is a
wisdom!"

At the gate straps were loosed and Barlow was jerked to the marble
steps as if he had been a blanket stripped from the horse's back.

"It is _the_ one, Jamadar," the guard declared, thrusting his face into
Barlow's; "it is the Afghan. Beyond doubt there will be blood upon his
clothes--look to it, Jamadar."

"We found the Afghan in the _serai_, and he was attending to his horse
as if about to fly; beyond doubt he is the murderer of our Chief," one
who had ridden with the jamadar said.

"Bring the murderer face to face with his foul deed," the jamadar
commanded; and clasped by both arms, pinioned, Barlow was pushed
through the gate and into the dim-lighted hall. In the scuffle of the
passing Hunsa sought to slip through, impelled by a devilish