Of course it would have taken a more obdurate male than Amir Khan to not appreciate the exquisite charm of the Gulab; no art could have equalled the inherent patrician simplicity and sweetness of her every thought and action.  Perhaps her determination to ingratiate herself into the good graces of the Chief was intensified, brought to a finer perfection, by the motive that had really instigated her to accept this terrible mission, her love for the Englishman, Barlow.

Of course this was not an unusual thing; few women have lived who are not capable of such a sacrifice for some one; the “grand passion,” when it comes, and rarely out of reasoning, smothers everything in the heart of almost every woman—­once.  It had come to Bootea; foolishly, impossible of an attainment, everything against its ultimate accomplished happiness, but nothing of that mattered.  She was there, waiting—­waiting for the service that Fate had whispered into her being.

And she danced divinely—­that is the proper word for it.  Her dancing was a revelation to Amir Khan who had seen nautchnis go through their sensuous, suggestive, voluptuous twistings of supple forms, disfigured by excessive decoration—­bangles, anklets, nose rings, high-coloured swirling robes, and with voices worn to a rasping timbre that shrilled rather than sang the ghazal (love song) as they gyrated.  But here was something different.  Bootea’s art was the art that was taught princesses in the palaces of the Rajput Ranas, not the bidding of a courtesan for the desire of a man.  Her dress was a floating cloud of gauzy muslin:  and her sole evident adornment the ruby-headed gold snake-bracelet, the iron band of widowhood being concealed higher on her arm.  Some intuition had taught the girl that this mode would give rise in the warrior’s heart to a feeling of respectful liking:  it had always been that way with real men where she was concerned.

When Amir Kahn passed an order that Bootea was to be treated as a queen, his officers smiled in their heavy black beards and whispered that his two wives would yet be hand-maidens to a third, the favourite.

Hunsa saw all this, for he was the one that often carried a message to the Gulab that her presence was desired in the palace.  But there were always others there; the players and the musicians—­the ones who played the sitar (guitar) and the violin; and the officers.

Hunsa was getting impatient.  Every time he looked at the handsome black-bearded head of the warrior he was like a covetous thief gazing upon a diamond necklace that is almost within his grasp.  He had come there to kill him and delay was dangerous.  He had been warned by the Dewan that they suspected Barlow meant to visit the Chief on behalf of the British.  He might turn up any day.  When he spoke to Bootea about her part in the mission, the enticing of Amir Khan to her tent so that he might be killed, she simply answered: