the
disfigured woman who, with a certain amount of satisfaction in her
heart, brought about by the grim look on Ben Kelham's face, was limping
towards the exit. She had just reached it when her veil was caught on
the rough wicker of a basket containing hens which was being carried on
the back of a man whose mean hovel--which yet had been his home--had
been razed to the ground to allow of the building of the courtesan's
house.

He had stood the best part of the day, with heart full of vengeance,
amongst the little knots of people loitering outside the courtesan's
gate, and had only been induced to leave the spot to go and claim the
poultry waiting for him at the station.

Just as the veil caught in the wicker he moved a little to one side to
escape a group of laughing, joyous pilgrims; swung right round to shout
them a greeting and in so doing pulled the struggling woman in front of
him, tearing off her veil and exposing the right side of her face
which, having escaped injury, was still wonderfully beautiful, in spite
of the dirt. The basket of hens crashed, to the ground and, bursting,
liberated the birds, as, with a yell of "Zulannah!" the man leapt
straight at the woman, who dived under a porter's arm and disappeared
through the exit.

There was a sudden mad rush to the exit by the inhabitants of the
bazaar, who, jamming together in a shouting, yelling pack, gave the
woman a few moments' grace.

"Stand on one side, sir. Come back, miss!" ordered the station-master,
seizing the arm of an indignant Britisher. "It's no use trying to stop
them; they go like this sometimes, quite mad, generally when they've
sighted a thief or somebody against whom they have some grudge. Let
them pass, sir; let them pass."

The station-yard was packed with vehicles, motors, omnibuses, and
scores of rattling, racketing native carts.

Straight into the middle of them fled the woman, terror lending her an
incredible speed which agonising physical pain augmented. She dived
under horses, she squeezed through vehicles, she twisted and turned,
caring naught for the native drivers, who, indifferent to the daily
sufferings of their wretched little horses, lashed at her with their
whips, with shouts of "_Shima-lak_!" "_U'a-u'a_!" "_Riglak, riglak_!"
"_U'a-u'a_!" and peals of derisive laughter.

Headed by the man who had carried the hens, their eyes blazing,
helpless victims of the indescribable blood-lust which sometimes seizes
the