The Pathan led Linforth to the right between the Chisti’s tomb and the raised marble court surrounded by its marble balustrade in front of the long mosque of Shah Jehan.  Behind the tomb there were more trees, and the shrine of a dancing saint, before which dancers from Chitral were moving in and out with quick and flying steps.  The Pathan led Linforth quickly through the groups, and though here and there a man stood in their way and screamed insults, and here and there one walked along beside them with a scowling face and muttered threats, no one molested them.

The Pathan turned to the right, mounted a few steps, and passed under a low stone archway.  Linforth found himself upon a balcony overhanging a great ditch between the Dargah and Taragarh Hill.  He leaned forward over the balustrade, and from every direction, opposite to him, below him, and at the ends, steps ran down to the bottom of the gulf—­twisting and turning at every sort of angle, now in long lines, now narrow as a stair.  The place had the look of some ancient amphitheatre.  And at the bottom, and a little to the right of the balcony, was the mouth of an open spring.

“The Prince is here, your Excellency.”

Linforth looked along the balcony.  There were only three men standing there, in white robes, with white turbans upon their heads.  The turban of one was hemmed with gold.  There was gold, too, upon his robe.

“No,” said Linforth.  “He has not yet come,” and even as he turned again to look down into that strange gulf of steps the man with the gold-hemmed turban changed his attitude and showed Linforth the profile of his face.

Linforth was startled.

“Is that the Prince?” he exclaimed.  He saw a man, young to be sure, but older than Shere Ali, and surely taller too.  He looked more closely.  That small carefully trimmed black beard might give the look of age, the long robe add to his height.  Yes, it was Shere Ali.  Linforth walked along the balcony, and as he approached, Shere Ali turned quickly towards him.  The blood rushed into his dark face; he stood staring at Linforth like a man transfixed.

Linforth held out his hand with a smile.

“I hardly knew you again,” he said.

Shere Ali did not take the hand outstretched to him; he did not move; neither did he speak.  He just stood with his eyes fixed upon Linforth.  But there was recognition in his eyes, and there was something more.  Linforth recalled something that Violet Oliver had told to him in the garden at Peshawur—­“Are you going to marry Linforth?” That had been Shere Ali’s last question when he had parted from her upon the steps of the courtyard of the Fort.  Linforth remembered it now as he looked into Shere Ali’s face.  “Here is a man who hates me,” he said to himself.  And thus, for the first time since they had dined together in the mess-room at Chatham, the two friends met.