“No, Sahib, I did not see them.”

This was not a lie for it was Ajeet who had seen them, and because of the Sahib’s interest she knew the two men must have been of his command; and if she spoke of them undoubtedly he would go back and be killed.

“Were they servants of yours, Sahib—­these men who rode?”

Barlow gave off but a little sliver of truth:  “No,” he answered; “but at Manabad men spoke of them passing this way, journeying to Poona, and if they were strangers to this district, it might be that they had taken the wrong road at the fork.  But if you did not see them they will be ahead.”

“And meaning, Sahib, it would not be right if they saw you bearing on your horse one who is not a memsahib?”

“As to that, Gulab, what might be thought by men of low rank is of no consequence.”

“But if the Sahib wishes to overtake them my burden upon the horse will be an evil, and he will be sorry that Bootea had not shame sufficient to refuse his help.”

She felt the strong arm press her body closer, and heard him laugh.  But still he did not answer, did not say why he was interested in the two horsemen.  If it were vital, and she believed it was, for him to know that they lay dead at the Bagree camp, it was wrong for her to not tell him this, he who was a preserver.  But to tell him would send him to his death.  She knew, as all the people of that land knew, that the sahibs went where their Raja told them was their mission, and laughed at death; and the face of this one spoke of strength, and the eyes of placid fearlessness; so she said nothing.

The sandal soles that pinched her soft flesh she felt were a reproach—­they had something to do with the thing that was between the Sahib and the dead soldiers.  There were tears in her eyes and she shivered.

Barlow, feeling this, said:  “You’re cold, Gulab, the night-wind that comes up from the black muck of the cotton fields and across the river is raw.  Hang on for a minute,” he added, as he slipped his arm from about her shoulders and fumbled at the back of his saddle.  A couple of buckles were unclasped, and he swung loose a warm military cloak and wrapped it about her, as he did so his cheek brushing hers.

Then she was like a bird lying against his chest, closed in from everything but just this Sahib who was like a god.

A faint perfume lingered in Barlow’s nostrils from the contact; it was the perfume of attar, of the true oil of rose, such as only princes use because of its costliness, and he wondered a little.

She saw his eyes looking down into hers, and asked, “What is it, Sahib—­what disturbs you?  If it is a question, ask me.”

His white teeth gleamed in the moonlight.  “Just nothing that a man should bother over—­that he should ask a woman about.”

But almost involuntarily he brushed his face across her black hair and said, “Just that, Gulab—­that it’s like burying one’s nose in a rose.”