They were seated in Courtenay's tent, face to face across the low
table, with guttering lights between and Ismail outside the tent
handing plates and things to Courtenay's servant inside.

"You're about the first who has admitted it," said King.

Not far from them a herd of pack-camels grunted and bubbled after
the evening meal. The evening breeze brought the smoke of dung
fires down to them, and an Afghan--one of the little crowd of
traders who had come down with the camels three hours ago--sang a
wailing song about his lady-love. Overhead the sky was like black
velvet, pierced with silver holes.

"You see, you can't call our end of this business war--it's sport,"
said Courtenay. "Two battalions of Khyber Rifles, hired to hold
the Pass against their own relations. Against them a couple of
hundred thousand tribesmen, very hungry for loot, armed with up-to-
date rifles, thanks to Russia yesterday and Germany to-day, and
all perfectly well aware that a world war is in progress. That's
sport, you know--not the 'image and likeness of war' that Jorrocks
called it, but the real red root. And you've got a mystery thrown
in to give it piquancy. I haven't found out yet how Yasmini got
up the Pass without my knowledge. I thought it was a trick. Didn't
believe she'd gone. Yet all my mer swear they know she has gone,
and not one of them will own to having seen her go! What d'you
think of that ?"

"Tell you later," said King, "when I've been in the 'Hills' a while."

"What d'you suppose I'm going to say, eh? Shall I enter in my diary