There was a curious look in the Prince’s eyes as he turned them on Elizabeth; a mingling of questioning and defiance was in them.

Now the holder of the pitcher stood up and the guru drew upon it four red lines and dropped through its shattered mouth a woman’s bracelet of gold lacquer beads.  Then the pitcher was placed upon the Kali shrine; raw sugar was inclosed in a cloth and tied to a branch of the pipal.

The voice of the Bagree Chief, somewhat coarse in its fulness, its independence, now was heard saying:  “Sirdar Sahib, and Dewan Sahib, we men of the nine castes of the Bagrees now make the sacred oath.  Come close that ye may observe.”

Jean Baptiste edged his horse to the side of the road, and the Dewan, heaving from the palki, stood upright.

Ajeet dipped a tapering finger in the pitcher of blood, touched the swaying bag of sugar, and laying the hand against his forehead said, in a loud voice: 

“If I, Ajeet Singh, break faith with Maharaja Sindhia, may Bhowanee punish me!”

Sookdee and Hunsa each in turn took the same solemn oath of allegiance.

As Hunsa turned from the ordeal and passed the Gulab Begum to where the Bagrees stood in line, Nana Sahib said, “Do you know, General, what that baboon-faced jamadar made oath to?”

“The last one, my Prince?”

“Yes, he of the splendid ugliness.  He testified, ’If I fail to thrust a knife between the shoulder-blades of Ajeet Singh may Bhowanee cast me as a sacrifice.’”

“He is jamadar to the other, Prince—­but why?”

“He looked upon the Rose Lady as he passed, and as the blooded finger lay upon his forehead he looked upon Ajeet, and in his pig eyes was unholiness.”

The cold grey eyes of the Frenchman rested for a second upon the burning black eyes of the speaker, and again he shivered.  He knew that the careless words meant that Hunsa was an instrument, if needs be.  But the Prince’s teeth were gleaming in a smile.  And he was saying:  “If the play is over, Sirdar, turn your mount over to the syce and pop up here beside Captain Barlow—­I’ll tool you home.  The Captain might like a peg.”

The bay Arabs swirled the brake along the smooth roadway that lay like a wide band of coral between giant green walls of gold-mohr and tamarind; and sometimes a pipal, its white bole and branches gleaming like the bones of a skeleton through leaves of the deepest emerald, and its roots daubed with the red paint of devotion to the tree god.  Here and there a neem, its delicate branches dusted with tiny white star blossoms, cast a sensuous elusive perfume to the vagrant breeze.  Once a gigantic jamon stretched its gnarled arms across the roadway as if a devilfish held poised his tentacles to snatch from the brake its occupants.

When they had swung in to the Sirdar’s bungalow and clambered down from the brake, Elizabeth said:  “If you don’t mind, General Baptiste, I’ll just drift around amongst these beautiful roses while you men have your pegs.  No, I don’t care for tea,” she said, in answer to his suggestion.  There was a mirthless smile on her lips as she added:  “I’m like Captain Barlow, I like the rose.”