He caused more comment than she, and of a different kind. His
rose-pink pugree, with the egret and the diamond brooch to hold the
egret in its place--his jeweled sabre--his swaggering, almost
ruffianly air--were no more meant to escape attention than his
charger that clattered and kicked among the crowd, or his following,
who cleared a way for him with the butt ends of their lances. He rode
ahead, but every other minute a mounted sepoy would reach out past him
and drive his lance-end into the ribs of some one in the way.

There would follow much deep salaaming; more than one head would bow
very low indeed; and in many languages, by the names of many gods, he
would be cursed in undertones. Aloud, they would bless him and call
him "Heaven-born!"

But he took no interest whatever in the crowd. His dark-brown eyes
were fixed incessantly on Rosemary McClean's back. Whenever she turned
a corner in the crowded maze of streets, he would spur on in a hurry
until she was in sight again, and then his handsome, swarthy face would
light with pleasure--wicked pleasure--self-assertive, certain,
cruel. He would rein in again to let her draw once more ahead.

Rosemary McClean knew quite well who was following her, and knew, too,
that she could do nothing to prevent him. Once, as she passed a
species of caravansary--low-roofed, divided into many lockable
partitions, and packed tight with babbling humanity--she caught sight
of a pair of long, black thigh boots, silver-spurred, and of a polished
scabbard that moved spasmodically, as though its owner were impatient.

"Mahommed Gunga!" she muttered to herself. "I wonder whether he would