"Ask her!" said Ismail. "It is her business."

"And thou? Was the life of a British officer the price paid?"

"Nay. I slew a mullah."

The calmness of the admission, and the satisfaction that its memory
seemed to bring the owner made King laugh. He found lawless
satisfaction for himself in that Ismail's blood-price should have
been a priest, not one of his brother officers. A man does not
follow King's profession for health, profit or sentiment's sake,
but healthy sentiment remains. The loyalty that drives him, and
is its own most great reward, makes him a man to the middle. He
liked Ismail. He could not have liked him in the same way if he
had known him guilty of English blood, which is only proof, of course,
that sentiment and common justice are not one. But sentiment remains.
Justice is an ideal.

"Be warned and go back!" urged Ismail.

"Come with me, then."

"Nay, I am her man. She waits for me!"

"I imagine she waits for me!" laughed King. "Forward! We have
rested in this place long enough!"

So on they went, climbing and descending the naked ramparts that
lead eastward and upward and northward to the Roof of Mother Earth--