"Think!" he said, nodding. "A throne, sahiba, is considerably better
than a grave!" Then he wheeled like a sudden dust-devil and decamped
in a cloud of dust, followed at full pelt by his clattering escort.
She watched their horses leap one after the other the corpse of the
Maharati that lay by the corner where it fell, and she saw the last of
them go clattering, whirling up the street through the bazaar. The old
hag rose out of a shadow and trotted after her again as she turned and
rode on, pale-faced and crying now a little, to the little begged
school place where her father tried to din the alphabet into a dozen
low-caste fosterlings.

"Father!" she cried, and she all but fell out of the saddle into his
arms as the tall, lean Scotsman came to the door to meet her and stood
blinking in the sunlight. "Father, I've seen another man killed! I've
had another scene with Jaimihr! I can't endure it! I--I--Oh, why
did I ever come?"

"I don't know, dear," he answered. "But you would come, wouldn't you?"




CHAPTER II


'Twixt loot and law--'tween creed and caste--
Through slough this people wallows,
To where we choose our road at last.
I choose the RIGHT! Who follows?