little woman that ever lived," he said; "and I am
a sinner, for this can only bring you misery."

"Sahib--it can't be, but it is not misery. The sweet pain has been put
in the heart of Bootea by the Sahib's eyes, and she is happy. But do
not go as a Sahib."

Barlow cursed softly to himself, muttering, "India! Even dreams are
not unheard!" Then, "What made you say that?" he queried.

"It is known because that is the way of the Sahib. He knows that where
he sleeps or eats, or plays games with the little balls, that there are
always servants, and it is known that Captain Barrle is called the
Patan by his friends."

"St. George and the Cross!" he ejaculated. "If I were thus would they
know me?" he asked. "There would be danger, but the Sahib knowing of
this, could take more care in the way of deceit. But Bootea will
know--the eyes will not be hidden."

Then he thought of Hunsa, and asked, "But aren't you afraid to go with
that beast, Hunsa?"

The girl laughed. "The decoits have orders from the Dewan to kill him
if I complain of him; but if they do not he is promised the torture
when he comes back if I make complaint. If the Sahib will but wait a
few days before the journey so that Bootea has made friends with Amir
Kami before he comes, it will be better. We will start in two days."

"I'll see, Gulab," he answered evasively. "You are going now?"

"Yes, Sahib--it has been said."

"I'll send the doorman with you."

"No, Bootea will be better alone," she touched the knife in her sash;
"it must not be known that Bootea came to the Sahib."

Barlow took her arm leading her through the bathroom to the back door;
he opened it, and listened intently for a few seconds. Then he took
her oval face in his palms and kissed her, passionately, saying,
"Good-bye, little girl; God be with you. You are sweet."

"The Sahib is like a god to Bootea," she whispered.

As the girl slipped away between the bushes, like something floating
out of a dream, Barlow stood at the open door, a resurge of abasement
flooding his soul. In the combat between his mentality and his heart
the heart was making him a weakling, a dishonourable weakling, so it
seemed. He pulled the door shut, and went back to his bed and finally
fell asleep, a thing of tortured unrest.

CHAPTER XVII

Barlow was up early next morning, wakened by that universal alarm clock
of India, the grey-necked, small-bodied city crow whose tribe is called
th