“They bring the Afghan!” somebody cried and pointed to where Barlow sat strapped to the saddle of his Beluchi mare.

“It is the one who killed the Chief!” another yelped; and the cries rippled along from mouth to mouth; tulwars flashed in the light of the lurid torches as they swept upward at the end of long arms threateningly; but the jamadar roared:  “Back, back! you’re like jackals snapping and snarling.  Back! if the one is killed how shall we know the truth?”

One, an old man, yelled triumphantly:  “Allah be praised! a wisdom—­a wisdom!  The torture; the horse-bucket and the hot ashes!  The jamadar will have the truth out of the Afghan.  Allah be praised! it is a wisdom!”

At the gate straps were loosed and Barlow was jerked to the marble steps as if he had been a blanket stripped from the horse’s back.

“It is the one, Jamadar,” the guard declared, thrusting his face into Barlow’s; “it is the Afghan.  Beyond doubt there will be blood upon his clothes—­look to it, Jamadar.”

“We found the Afghan in the serai, and he was attending to his horse as if about to fly; beyond doubt he is the murderer of our Chief,” one who had ridden with the jamadar said.

“Bring the murderer face to face with his foul deed,” the jamadar commanded; and clasped by both arms, pinioned, Barlow was pushed through the gate and into the dim-lighted hall.  In the scuffle of the passing Hunsa sought to slip through, impelled by a devilish fascination to hear all that would be said in the death-chamber.  If the case against the Sahib were short and decisive—­perhaps they might slice him into ribbons with their swords—­Hunsa would then have nothing to fear, and need not attempt flight.

But the guard swept him back with the butt of his long smooth-bore, crying:  “Dog, where go you?” Then he saw that it was Hunsa, the messenger of his Chiefs favourite—­as he took the Gulab to be—­and he said:  “You cannot enter, Hunsa.  It is a matter for the jamadars alone.”

At that instant the Gulab slipped through the struggling groups in the street, the Pindaris gallantly making way for her.  She had heard of the murder of the Chief, and had seen the dragging in of the Afghan.

“Let me go up, guard,” she pleaded.

“It is a matter for men,” he objected.  “The jamadar would be angry, and my sword and gun would be taken away and I should be put to scrub the legs of horses if I let you pass.”

“The jamadar will not be angry,” she pleaded, “for there is something to be said which only I have knowledge of.  It was spoken to me by the Chief, he had fear of this Afghan, and, please, in the name of Allah, let Hunsa by, for being alone I have need of him.”

The soft dark eyes pleaded stronger than the girl’s words, and the guard yielded, half reluctantly.  To the young Pindari he said, “Go you with these two, and if the jamadar is for cutting off their heads, say that those in the street pulled me from the door-way, and these slipped through; I have no fancy for the compliment of a sword on my neck.”