“And the road?” asked Shere Ali.

“It is not proposed to carry on the road.  The merchants in Kohara think that by bringing more trade, their profits would become less, while the country people look upon it as a deliberate attack upon their independence.  The Government has no desire to force it upon the people against their wish.”

Shere Ali made no reply, but his heart grew bitter within him.  He had come out to India sore and distressed at parting from his friends, from the life he had grown to love.  All the way down the Red Sea and across the Indian Ocean, the pangs of regret had been growing keener with each new mile which was gathered in behind the screw.  He had lain awake listening to the throb of the engine with an aching heart, and with every longing for the country he had left behind growing stronger, every recollection growing more vivid and intense.  There was just one consolation which he had.  Violet Oliver had enheartened him to make the most of it, and calling up the image of her face before him, he had striven so to do.  There were his plans for the regeneration of his country.  And lo! here at Lahore, three days after he had set foot on land, they were shattered—­before they were begun.  He had been trained and educated in the West according to Western notions and he was now bidden to go and rule in the East according to the ideals of the East.  Bidden!  For the quiet accent of authority in the words of the unobservant man who rode beside him rankled deeply.  He had it in his thoughts to cry out:  “Then what place have I in Chiltistan?”

But though he never uttered the question, it was none the less answered.

“Economy and quiet are the two things which Chiltistan needs,” said the Commissioner.  Then he looked carelessly at Shere Ali.

“It is hoped that you will marry and settle down as soon as possible,” he said.

Shere Ali reined in his horse, stared for a moment at his companion and then began quietly to laugh.  The laughter was not pleasant to listen to, and it grew harsher and louder.  But it brought no change to the tired face of the Commissioner, who had stopped his horse beside Shere Ali’s and was busy with the buckle of his stirrup leather.  He raised his head when the laughter stopped.  And it stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

“You were saying—­” he remarked politely.

“That I would like, if there is time, to ride through the Bazaar.”

“Certainly,” said the Commissioner.  “This way,” and he turned at right angles out of the Mall and its avenue of great trees and led the way towards the native city.  Short of it, however, he stopped.

“You won’t mind if I leave you here,” he said.  “There is some work to be done.  You can make no mistake.  You can see the Gate from here.”

“Is that the Delhi Gate?” asked Shere Ali.

“Yes.  You can find your own way back, no doubt”; and the unobservant Commissioner rode away at a trot.