resome among the spectators as the procession moved slowly,
as move all things in the East.

Shouting fiercely, the _siyas_ stopped suddenly in front of her grace's
car, arms uplifted, mouths open, then turned in their tracks and sped
back to the master who had called them.

The old lady and the girl beside her interchanged never a word as they
watched Hugh Carden Ali urge the mare who picked a dainty path through
the wondering crowds which opened a way before her. The sun caught the
jewels on the man's breast and above his turban and upon the
saddle-cloth of the roan mare, and struck fiercely slantwise into the
proud, handsome face with the set mouth and the eyes which never once
looked in the Englishwomen's direction.

For a full minute he sat immovable, whilst the mare, freed from the
fret of the crowd, stood stock-still. In his bearing, in the
magnificent picture he made under the flaming skies, there seemed a
subtle challenge to the two Englishwomen. All his English nature rose
in revolt against the barriers that rose between himself and Damaris,
daughter of his mother's race; but, curbing his passion with the
self-control he had learned in British fields of sport, he remembered
that he belonged primarily to his father's land, whose people had three
thousand years before held the keys of civilisation in their powerful
hands, whilst the people of his mother's land were just about emerging
from the primitiveness of the Stone Age.

"_I am the East_!" he seemed to cry in his utter immobility.

Then he turned, beckoned, and gave a sharp order to the bewildered
policeman, who salaamed almost to the ground.

Hugh Carden Ali bowed, to the saddle, as the great car shot smoothly
forward. There was a smile of welcome on the face of the old woman who
had loved his mother; a whole world of welcome in the outstretched hand
and a little feeling of thankfulness in her heart; that at last she
might get to know the man in time, and, with him, go to visit his
mother, or, better still, win his confidence, heal his hurt, and so
obviate the tedious journey.

But there was to be no drawing together of the man's wound with the
silken threads of sympathy.

He sat like a statue, with his left hand raised in salute,[1] until the
Englishwomen had passed; then, throwing his falcon, he watched the
confused bird's flight in search of the quarry which was not there.

"_Cry aloud to Ali the worker of wonders,
From Him thou wilt