was still racked by
suspense. The fight had become a symbol, almost a message to him, even as
his gift to the Mullah had become a message to the people of Chiltistan.
All that he had once loved, and now furiously raged against, was
represented by the soldier, the confident, big, heavily built soldier,
while, on the other hand, by the victory of the Jew all the subject
peoples would be vindicated. More and more as the fight fluctuated from
round to round the people and the country of Chiltistan claimed its own.
The soldier represented even those youths at his side, whose women must
on no account be insulted.

"Why should they be respected?" he cried to himself.

For at the bottom of his heart lay the thought that he had been set aside
as impossible by Violet Oliver. There was the real cause of his
bitterness against the white people. He still longed for Violet Oliver,
still greatly coveted her. But his own people and his own country were
claiming him; and he longed for her in a different way. Chivalry--the
chivalry of the young man who wants to guard and cherish--respect, the
desire that the loved one should share ambitions, life work, all--what
follies and illusions these things were!

"I know," said Shere Ali to himself. "I know. I am myself the victim of
them," and he lowered his head and clasped his hands tightly together
between his knees. He forgot the prize-fight, the very sound of the
pugilists' feet upon the bare boards of the stage ceased to be audible to
his ears. He ached like a man bruised and beaten; he was possessed with a
sense of loneliness, poignant as pain. "If I had only taken the easier
way, bought and never cared!" he cried despairingly. "But at all events
there's no need for respect. Why should one respect those who take and do
not give?"

As he asked himself the question, there came a roar from the audience. He
looked up. The soldier was standing, but he was stooping and the fingers
of one hand touched the boards. Over against the soldier the man from
Singapore stood waiting with steady eyes, and behind the ropes Colonel
Joe was counting in a loud voice:

"One, two, three, four."

Shere Ali's eyes lit up. Would the soldier rise? Would he take the tips
of those fingers from the floor, stand up again and face his man? Or was
he beaten?

"Five, six, seven, eight"--the referee counted, his voice rising above
the clamour of voices. The audience had risen, men stood upon their
benches, cries of