Barlow darted forward as Bootea reeled and caught her with an arm.  Close, the face, fair as that of a memsahib in the pallor of fright and the paling moonlight, sweet, of finer mould, more spiritual than the Mona Lisa’s, puritanically simple, the mass of black hair drawn straight back from the low broad brow—­for the rich turban had fallen in her fight for freedom—­woke memory in the sahib; and as the blood ebbed back through the girl’s veins, the pale cheeks flushed with rose, her eyelids quivered and drew back their shutters from eyes that were like those of an antelope.

“You—­you, Gulab, the giver of the red rose, the singer of the love song!” Barlow gasped.

“Yes, Captain Sahib, you who are like a god—­” Bootea checked, her head drooped.

But Barlow putting his fingers under her chin and gently lifting the face asked, “And what—­what?”

“You came like one in a dream.  Also, Sahib, I am but one who danced before you and you have saved me.”

“And, little girl, you saved my life.”

He felt a shudder run through the girl’s form, and then she pushed him from her crying, “Sahib—­Hunsa!  Quick!”

For the jamadar, recovering his senses, had risen to his knees fumbling at his belt groggily for his knife.

Barlow swung the pistol from its holster and rushed toward Hunsa, but the latter, at sight of the dreaded weapon, fled, pursued for a few paces by the Captain.

The girl saw the sandal soles lying upon the ground where Hunsa had dropped them in the struggle, and slipped them beneath her breast-belt, a quick thought coming to her that if the Captain saw them he might recognise them as the footwear of the soldiers.  Also Hunsa had said they were for a purpose.

Barlow followed the fleeing shadow for a dozen strides, then his pistol barked, and swinging on his heel he came back, saying, with a little laugh, “That was just to frighten the beggar so he wouldn’t come back.”

But Bootea’s eyes went wide now with a new fear; the sound of the shot would travel faster even than the fleeing Hunsa:  and if the decoits came—­for already they would be making ready for the road—­this beautiful god, with eyes like stars and a voice of music, would be killed, would be no more than the Bagree lying on the road who was but carrion.  In her heart was a new thing.  The struggle with Hunsa, the fright, even the horribleness of the blood upon her knife, was washed away by a hot surging flood of exquisite happiness.  The Hindu name for love—­“a pain in the heart”—­was veritably hers in its intensity; the sahib’s arm about her when she had closed her eyes had caused her to feel as if she were being lifted to heaven.

She laid a hand on Barlow’s arm and her eyes were lifted pleadingly to his:  “You must go, Sahib—­mount your horse and go, because—­”

“Because of what?”

“There are many, and you will be killed.  Hunsa will bring others.”