le forts on the crags and the men on guard all
along the bills, rifles ready! You could hear the guns rattle as they
saluted. Do you know that up there men plough with rifles loaded beside
them? They have to be men indeed."

"Do you mean to imply that we are not men?"

"Different men at least. This is life in a Border ballad. Such a life as
you knew in France but beautiful in a wild--hawk sort of way. Don't the
Khyber Rifles bewilder you? They are drawn from these very Hill tribes,
and will shoot their own fathers and brothers in the way of duty as
comfortably as if they were jackals. Once there was a scrap here and
one of the tribesmen sniped our men unbearably. What do you suppose
happened? A Khyber Rifle came to the Colonel and said, 'Let me put
an end to him, Colonel Sahib. I know exactly where he sits. He is my
grandfather.' And he did it!"

"The bond of bread and salt?"

"Yes, and discipline. I'm sometimes half frightened of discipline. It
moulds a man like wax. Even God doesn't do that. Well--then you had the
traders--wild shaggy men in sheepskin and women in massive jewelry of
silver and turquoise,-great earrings, heavy bracelets loading their
arms, wild, fierce, handsome. And the camels--thousands of them, some
going up, some coming down, a mass of human and animal life. Above
you, moving figures against the keen blue sky, or deep below you in the
ravines.

"The camels were swaying along with huge bales of goods, and dark
beautiful women in wicker cages perched on them. Silks and carpets from
Bokhara, and blue--eyed Persian cats, and bluer Persian turquoises.
Wonderful! And the dust, gilded by the sunshine, makes a vaporous golden
atmosphere for it all."

"What was the most wonderful thing you saw there?"

"The most beautiful, I think, was a man--a splendid dark ruffian
lounging along. He wanted to show off, and his swagger was perfect. Long
black onyx eyes and a tumble of black curls, and teeth like almonds.
But what do you think he carried on his wrist--a hawk with fierce yellow
eyes, ringed and chained. Hawking is a favourite sport in the hills. Oh,
why doesn't some great painter come and paint it all before they take to
trains and cars? I long to see it all again, but I never shall."

"Why not," said I. "Surely Sir John can get you up there any day?"

"Not now. The fighting makes it difficult. But it isn't that. I am
leaving."

"Leaving?" My heart gave a leap. "Why? Where?"

"Leaving Lady Mery