"Hast thou the gold mohurs?" she would demand.

"Am I a sieve?"

"Let my old eyes see them, sahib."

He would take out two gold coins and hold them out in such a way that
she could look at them without the opportunity to snatch.

"There is no word yet," she would answer, when her eyes had feasted on
them as long as his patience would allow.

"Have they no fear then?"

"None. Only madness!"

"See that they bite thee not! Keep thy wits with thee, and be ready to
bring me word in time, else--"

"Patience, sahib! Show me the coins again--one little look--again
once!"

But Ali Partab would wheel and ride away, leaving her to mumble and
gibber in the road and curl again on to her blanket in the blackest
corner by the door.

Once, on an expedition of that kind, he encountered Duncan McClean
himself. The lean, tall Scotsman, gray-headed from the cares he had
taken on himself, a little bowed from heat and hopelessness, but