his find. It would stiffen
the bidding to announce that she was gentle. He even went so far as to
pat her on the shoulder. The steel film did not cover all her nerves,
so it would seem; the patted shoulder was vulnerable. She winced, for
she read clearly enough what was in the mind back of that touch.

She had made her plans. To the man who purchased her she would assume
a meekness of spirit in order to lull his watchfulness. To the man who
purchased her . . . Kathlyn Hare! She laughed. The old man behind
her nodded approvingly, hearing the sound but not sensing its import.
Ah, when the moment came, when the fool who bought her started to lead
her home, she would beguile him and at the first sign of carelessness
she would trust to her heels. She knew that she was going to run as
never a woman ran before; back to the beasts of the jungle, who at
least made no effort to molest her so long as she kept out of their way.

Wild and beautiful she was as the old mahout turned her over to a
professional seller.

"Circassian!"

"From the north!"

"A bride from the desert!"

"A yellow-hair!"

"A daughter of the north seas!"

The old mahout squatted close by and rubbed his hands. He would be a
rich man that night; bags of rupees; a well thatched house to cover his
gray hairs till that day they placed him on the pyre at the burning
ghat. The gods were good.

Durga Ram, known familiarly as Umballa, at this hour came forth into
the sunshine, brooding. He was not in a happy frame of mind. Many
things lay heavy upon his soul; but among these things there was not
one named remorse. To have brought about all these failures this
thought irked him most. Here was a crown almost within reach of his
greedy fingers, the water to Tantalus. To have underestimated this
yellow haired young woman, he who knew women so well--there lay the
bitter sting. He had been too impetuous; he should have waited till
all her fears had been allayed. That spawn of Siva, the military, was
insolent again, and rupees to cross their palms were scarce. Whither
had she blown? Was she dead? Was she alive?

The white hunter had not returned to his camp yet, but the sly Ahmed
was there. The perpetual gloom on the face of the latter was
reassuring to Umballa. Ahmed's master had not found her. To wring the
white man's heart was something. He dared not put him out of the way;
too many knew.

And the council was beginning to grow uneasy