in Sahib ki
jai!"_[27]

Twice Roy's slicing stroke almost came off--almost, not quite. The
maddening little feather still held its own; and Lance, by way of
rejoinder, caught him a blow on his mask that made his head ache for an
hour after.

Up went his arm to return the blow with interest. Lance, instead of
parrying, lunged--and the head of a yellow bud dropped in the dust.

At that Roy saw red. His lifted hand shook visibly; and with the
moment's loss of control went his last hope of victory....

Next instant his feather had joined the rosebud; the crowd were roaring
themselves hoarse; and Roy was riding off the ground--shorn of plume and
favour, furiously disappointed, and feeling a good deal more bruised
about the arms and shoulders than anything on earth would have induced
him to admit.

Of course he ought to go up and congratulate Lance; but just then it
seemed a physical impossibility. Mercifully he was surrounded and borne
off to the refreshment tent; sped on his way by a rousing ovation as he
passed the _shamianah_.

Roy, following after, had his full share of praise, and a salvo of
applause from the main tent.

Saluting and looking round, he dared not meet Miss Arden's eye. Had he
won, she might have owned him. As it was, he had better keep his
distance. But the glimpse he got of her face startled him. It looked
curiously white and strained. His own imagination, perhaps. It was only
a flash. But it haunted him. He felt responsible. She had been so
radiantly sure....

Arrived in the other tent--feeling stupidly giddy and in pain--he sank
down on the first available chair. Friendly spirits ordered drinks, and
soothed him with compliments. A thundering good fight. To be so narrowly
beaten by Desmond was an achievement in itself; and so forth.

Lance and Paul, still surrounded, were at the other end of the long
table; and a very fair wedge of thirsty, perspiring manhood filled the
intervening space. Roy did not feel like stirring. He felt more like
drinking half a dozen 'pegs' in succession. But soon he was aware of a
move going on. The prizes, of course; and he had two to collect. By a
special decree, the Tournament prize would be given first. So he need
not hurry. The tent was emptying swiftly. He _must_ screw himself up to
congratulations....

The screwing was still in process when Lance crossed the tent--nearly
empty now--and stopped in front of him.

"See here, Roy--I apologise," he said hurrie