So as they rested on the sullen eyes of Sookdee he quivered; and the others stood in silence as Ajeet took Bootea by the arm saying, “Come, my lotus flower,” led her to the tent.

There the jamadar put his sinewy arms about the slender girl, and bent his handsome face to implant a kiss on her red lips, but she thrust his arms from her and drew back saying, “No, Ajeet!”

“Why, lotus—­why, Gulab?  Often from thy lips I have heard that there is no love in thy heart for any man even for me, but is it not a lie, the curious lie of a woman who resents a master?”

Ajeet in a mingling of awe and anger had dropped into the formal “thou” pronoun instead of the familiar “you.”

“No, Ajeet, it is the truth; I do not tell lies.”

“But out there thou denounced those sons of depraved parents in defence of Ajeet; thou bound up his hand as a mother dresses the wounds of a child in her love—­even mocked Bhowanee and the ordeal; then sayest thou there is no love in thy heart for Ajeet.”

“There is not; just the tie such as is between us, that is all.  I never learned love—­I was but a pawn, a prize.  Seest that, Ajeet?” and Bootea laid a finger upon the iron bracelet on her arm—­the badge of a widow.

Ajeet Singh sneered:  “A metal lie, a—­”

“Stop!” The girl’s voice was almost a scream of expostulation.  “To speak of that means death, thou fool.  And thou hast sworn—­”

Ajeet’s face had blanched.  Then a surge of anger re-flushed it.

“Gulab,” he said presently, “take care that the love thou say’st is dead—­but which is not, for it never dies in the heart of a woman, it is but a smouldering fire—­take care that it springs not into flame at the words of some other man, the touch of his hands, or the light of his eyes, because then, by Bhowanee, I will kill thee.”

The Gulab stamped a foot upon the earth floor of the tent:  “Coward! now I hate thee!  Only the weak, the cowards, threaten women.  When thou art brave and strong I do not hate if I do not love.  ’Tis thou, Ajeet, who art to take care.”

Outside Guru Lal was casting holy oil upon the troubled waters of a disputed ordeal.  The wily old priest knew well how omens and ordeals could be manipulated.  Besides, unity among the Bagree leaders, leading to much loot, would bring him tribute for the gods.

“It may be,” he was saying to Sookdee, “that the blacksmith, who is not of our tribe, nor of our nine castes, but is of the Sumar caste, has sought to put shame upon our gods by a trick.  At best he was a surly rascal of little thought.  It may be that the iron shot was made too hot for the hand of the Chief.  An ordeal is a fair test when its observance is equal between men; it is then that the goddess judges and gives the verdict—­her way is always just.  Have not we many times read wrongly her omens, and have misjudged the signs, and have suffered.  And Ajeet acted like one who is not guilty.”