Beneath a rich purple coat gleamed, like silver tracery, his steel shirt-of-mail; through his sash of red silk was thrust a straight-bladed sword, and from the top of his turban of blue-and-gold-thread, peeped a red cap with dangling tassel of gold.

In the afternoon of the second day the Bagrees came to the village of Sarorra.

“We will camp here,” the leader commanded, “close to the mango tope through which we have just passed, then we will summon the headman, and if he is as such accursed officials are, the holy one, the yogi, will cast upon him and his people a curse; also I will threaten him with the loss of his ears.”

“The one who is to be destroyed has not yet come,” Hunsa declared, “for here is what these dogs of villagers call a place of rest though it is but an open field.”

Ajeet turned upon the jamadar:  “The one who is to be destroyed, say you, Hunsa?  Who spoke in council that the merchant was to be killed?  We are men of decoity, we rob these fat pirates who rob the poor, but we take life only when it is necessary to save our own.”

“And when a robbed one who has power, such as rich merchants have, make complaint and give names, the powers take from us our profit and cast us into jail,” Hunsa retorted.

“And forget not, Ajeet, that we are here among the Mahrattas far from our own forests that we can escape into if there is outcry,” Sookdee interjected.  “If the voices are hushed and the bodies buried beneath where we cook our food, there will be only silence till we are safe back in Karowlee.  The Dewan will not protect us if there is an outcry—­he will deny that he has promised protection.”

The Bagrees were already busy preparing the camp, the camp of a supposed party of men on a sacred mission.

It was like the locating of a circus.  The tents they had brought stood gaudily in the hot sun, some white and some of cotton cloth dyed in brilliant colours, red, and blue, and yellow.  In front of Ajeet’s tent a bamboo pole was planted, from the top of which floated a red flag carrying a figure of the monkey god, Hanuman, embroidered in green and yellow.

The red and white bags carrying bones, which were supposed to be the bones of defunct relatives, were suspended from tripods of bamboo to preserve them from the pollution of the soil.

And presently three big drums, Nakaras, were arranged in front of the yogi’s tent, and were being beaten by strong-armed drummers, while a conch shell blared forth a discordant note that was supposed to be pleasing to the gods.

Some of the Bagrees issued from their tents having suddenly become canonised, metamorphosed from highwaymen to devout yogis, their bodies, looking curiously lean and ascetic, now clothed largely in ashes and paint.

“Go you, Hunsa,” Ajeet commanded, “into this depraved village and summon the patil to come forth and pay to the sainted yogi the usual gift of one rupee four annas, and make his salaams.  Also he is to provide fowl and fruits for us who are on this sacred mission.  He may be a son of swine, such as the lord of a village is, so speak, Jamadar, of the swords the Raja’s guards carry.  Say nothing as to the expected one, but let your eyes do all the questioning.”