“If your Highness will ride slowly on, your servant will follow and come to his side.”

Shere Ali went on, and in a few moments he heard the soft patter of a man running barefoot along the dusty road.  He stopped his horse and the patter of feet ceased, but a moment after, silent as a shadow, the man was at his side.

“You are of my country?” said Shere Ali.

“I am of Kohara,” returned the man.  “Safdar Khan of Kohara.  May God keep your Highness in health.  We have waited long for your presence.”

“What are you doing in Lahore?” asked Shere Ali.

In the darkness he saw a flash of white as Safdar Khan smiled.

“There was a little trouble, your Highness, with one Ishak Mohammed and—­Ishak Mohammed’s son is still alive.  He is a boy of eight, it is true, and could not hold a rifle to his shoulder.  But the trouble took place near the road.”

Shere Ali nodded his head in comprehension.  Safdar Khan had shot his enemy on the road, which is a holy place, and therefore he came within the law.

“Blood-money was offered,” continued Safdar Khan, “but the boy would not consent, and claims my life.  His mother would hold the rifle for him while he pulled the trigger.  So I am better in Lahore.  Moreover, your Highness, for a poor man life is difficult in Kohara.  Taxes are high.  So I came down to this gate and sat with a cloak over my head.”

“And you have found it profitable,” said Shere Ali.

Again the teeth flashed in the darkness and Safdar Khan laughed.

“For two days I sat by the Delhi Gate and no one spoke to me or dropped a single coin in my bowl.  But on the third day a good man, may God preserve him, passed by when I was nearly stifled and asked me why I sat in the heat of the sun under a blanket.  Thereupon I told him, what doubtless your Highness knows, that my face is much too holy to be looked upon, and since then your Highness’ servant has prospered exceedingly.  The device is a good one.”

Suddenly Safdar Khan stumbled as he walked and lurched against the horse and its rider.  He recovered himself in a moment, with prayers for forgiveness and curses upon his stupidity for setting his foot upon a sharp stone.  But he had put out his hand as he stumbled and that hand had run lightly down Shere Ali’s coat and had felt the texture of his clothes.

“I had a letter from Calcutta,” said the Prince, “which besought me to speak to you, for you had something for my ear.  Therefore speak, and speak quickly.”

But a change had come over Safdar Khan.  Certainly Shere Ali was wearing the dress of one of the Sahibs.  A man passed carrying a lantern, and the light, feeble though it was, threw into outline against the darkness a pith helmet and a very English figure.  Certainly, too, Shere Ali spoke the Pushtu tongue with a slight hesitation, and an unfamiliar accent.  He seemed to grope for words.