"He is like an Arab Apollo," Elizabeth commented; and her tone
suggested that it was a whip-cut at the Prince's half-sneer.

The girl's description of Ajeet was trite. The Chief's face was almost
perfect; the golden-bronze tint of the skin set forth in the enveloping
background of a turban of blue shot with gold-thread draped down to
cover a silky black beard that, parted at the chin, swept upward to
loop over the ears. The nose was straight and thin; there was a
predatory cast to it, perhaps suggested by the bold, black, almost
fierce eyes. He was clothed with the full, rich, swaggering adornment
of a Rajput; the splendid deep torso enclosed in a shirt-of-mail, its
steel mesh so fine that it rippled like silver cloth; a red velvet
vestment, negligently open, showed in the folds of a silk sash a
jewel-hilted knife; a _tulwar_ hung from his left shoulder. As he
moved here and there, there was a sinuous grace, panther-like, as if he
strode on soft pads. At rest his tall figure had the set-up of a
soldier.

As the three in the brake studied the handsome Ajeet, a girl stepped
forward and stood contemplating them.

"By Jove!" the exclamation had been Captain Barlow's; and Elizabeth,
with the devilish premonition of an acute woman knew that it was a
masculine's involuntary tribute to feminine attractivity.

She had turned to look at the Captain.

Nana Sahib, little less vibrant than a woman in his sensitive
organisation, showed his even, white teeth: "Don't blame you, old