see the
scowls, her brave little shoulders seconded a pair of quiet, brave gray
eyes in showing an unconquerable courage to the world, and her clean,
neat cotton riding-habit gave the lie and the laugh in one to poverty;
but, as the crowd had its atmosphere of secret murmuring, she had
another of secret anxiety.

Neither had fear. She did not believe in it. She was there to help her
father fight inhuman wrong, and die, if need be, in the last ditch. T
a two-hundred-million crowd, held down and compelled by less than a
hundred thousand aliens. And, least of all, had the man who followed
her at a little distance the slightest sense of fear. He was far more
conversant with it than she, but--unlike her, and far more than the
seething crowd--he knew the trend of events, and just what likelihood
there was of insult or injury to Rosemary McClean being avenged in a
generation.

He caused more comment than she, and of a different kind. His rose-pink
pugree, with the egret and the diamond brooch to hold the egret in its
place--his jeweled sabre--his swaggering, almost ruffianly air--were
no more meant to escape attention than his charger that clattered and
kicked among the crowd, or his following, who cleared a way for him with
the butt ends of their lances. He rode ahead, but every other minute a
mounted sepoy would reach out past him and drive his lance-end into the
ribs of some one in the way.

There would follow much deep salaaming; more than one head would bow
very low indeed; and in many languages, by the names of many gods, he
would be cursed in undertones. Aloud, they would bless him and call him
"Heaven-born!"

But he took no interest whatever in the crowd. His dark-brown eyes were
fixed incessantly on Rosemary McClean's back. Whenever she turned a
corner in the crowded maze of streets, he would spur on in a hurry until
she was in sight again, and then his handsome, swarthy face would light
with pleasure--wicked pleasure--self-assertive, certain, cruel. He would
rein in again to let her draw once more ahead.

Rosemary McClean knew quite well who was following her, and knew, too,
that she could do nothing to prevent him. Once, as she passed a species
of caravansary--low-roofed, divided into many lockable partitions, and
packed tight with babbling humanity--she caught sight of a pair of long,
black thigh boots, silver-spurred, and of a polished scabbard that moved
spasmodically, as though its owner were impatient.