harajah, seemed to strain for light and air between
two overlapping, high-walled brick warehouses. Before the door, in a
spot where the scorching sun-rays came but fitfully between a mesh of
fast-decaying thatch, the old hag who had followed Rosemary McClean lay
snoozing, muttering to herself, and blinking every now and then as a
street dog blinks at the passers-by. She took no notice of Mahommed
Gunga until he swore at her.

"Miss-sahib hai?" he growled; and the woman jumped up in a hurry and
went inside. A moment later Rosemary McClean stood framed in the doorway
still in her cotton riding-habit, very pale--evidently frightened at
the summons--but strangely, almost ethereally, beautiful. Her wealth of
chestnut hair was loosely coiled above her neck, as though she had been
caught in the act of dressing it. She looked like the wan, wasted spirit
of human pity--he like a great, grim war-god.

"Salaam, Miss Maklin-sahib!"

He dismounted as he spoke and stood at attention, then stared
truculently, too inherently chivalrous to deny her civility--he would
have cut his throat as soon as address her from horseback while she
stood--and too contemptuous of her father's calling to be more civil
than he deemed in keeping with his honor.

"Salaam, Mohammed Gunga!" She seemed very much relieved, although
doubtful yet. "Not letters again?"

"No, Miss-sahib. I am no mail-carrier! I brought those letters as a
favor to Franklin-sahib at Peshawur; I was coming hither, and he had
no man to send. I will take letters, since I am now going, if there are
letters ready; I ride to-night."

"Thank you, Mahommed Gunga. I have letters for England. They are not yet
sealed. May I send them to you before you start?"

"I will send my man for them. Also, Miss Maklin-sahib" (heavens!
how much cleaner and better that sounded than the prince's ironical
"sahiba"!)

"If you wish it, I will escort you to Peshawur, or to any city between
here and there."

"But--but why?"

"I saw Jaimihr. I know Jaimihr."

"And--"

"And--this is no place for a padre, or for the daughter of a padre."

What he said was true, but it was also insolent, said insolently.

"Mahommed Gunga-sahib, what are those ribbons on your breast?" she asked
him.

He glanced down at them, and his expression changed a trifle; it was
scarcely perceptible, but underneath his fierce mustache the muscles of
his mouth stiffened.

"They are medal ribbons--for campaigns," he answered