The hillman did not budge, for an Afridi pretends to feel for a Sikh
the scorn that a Sikh feels truly for Afridis. The flat of Ranjoor
Singh's foot came to his assistance, and the hillman budged. In an
instant he was on his feet, with a lightning right hand reaching for
his knife.

But Yasmini allows no butcher's work on her premises, and her words
within those walls are law, since no man knows who is on whose side.
Yasmini beckoned him, and the Afridi slouched toward her sullenly.
She whispered something, and he started for the stairs at once,
without any further protest.

Then there vanished all doubt as to which of the three Europeans was
most important. The man who had come in first had accepted sherbet
from the maid who sat beside him; he went suddenly from drowsiness to
slumber, and the woman spurned his bullet-head away from her
shoulder, letting him fall like a log among the cushions. The stout
second man looked frightened and sat nursing helpless hands. But the
third man sat forward, and tense silence fell on the assembly as the
eyes of every man sought his.

Only Yasmini, hovering in the background, had time to watch anything
other than those gray European eyes; she saw that they were
interested most in Ranjoor Singh, and the maids who noticed her
expression of sweet innocence knew that she was thinking fast.

"You are a Sikh?" said the gray-eyed man; and the crowd drew in its
breath, for he spoke Hindustani with an accent that very few achieve,
even with long practise.