“No wonder they call her the Rose Queen,” Barlow was communing with himself.  For the oval face with its olive skin, as fair as a Kashmiri girl’s, was certainly beautiful.  The black hair was smoothed back from a wide low forehead, after the habit of the Mahratti women; the prim simplicity of this seeming to add to the girlish effect.  A small white-and-gold turban, even with its jauntiness, seemed just the very thing to check the austere simplicity.  The girl’s eyes, like Ajeet’s, were the eyes of some one unafraid, of one born to a caste that felt equality.  When they turned to those who sat in the brake they were calmly meditative; they were the eyes of a child, modest; but with the unabashed confidence of youth.

Elizabeth, perhaps unreasonably, for the three of them sat so close together in the brake, fancied that the Gulab’s gaze constantly picked out the handsome Captain Barlow.

An imp touched Nana Sahib, and he said:  “I’d swear there was Rajput blood in that girl.  If I knew of some princess having been stolen I’d say she stood yonder.  The eyes are simply ripping; baby eyes, that, when roused, assist in driving a knife under a man’s fifth rib.  I’ve seen a sambhur doe with just such eyes cut into ribbons a Rampore hound with her sharp hoofs.”

“Well, Prince,” Elizabeth said, “I suppose you know the women of this land better than either Captain Barlow or myself, and you’re probably right, for I see in a belt at her waist the jewelled hilt of a dagger.”

Nana Sahib laughed:  “My dear Miss Hodson, I never play with edged tools, and Captain—­”

But Nana Sahib’s raillery was cut short by a small turmoil as the bleating goat of sacrifice was dragged forward to a stone daubed with vermillion upon which rested a small black alabaster image of Kali; while a guru, with sharpened knife, hung near like a falcon over a quivering bird.  Three times the goat’s head was thrust downward in obeisance to the black goddess; there was a flash of steel in the sunlight, and hot blood gushed forth, to dye with its crimson flood the base of the idol.

A Bagree darted forward and with a stroke of his tulwar clipped the neck from a pitcher and held it beneath the gurgling flood till it was filled.

From where Elizabeth sat she looked across the shoulder of Nana Sahib as they watched the sacrifice; she saw him quiver and lean forward, his shoulders tip as though he would spring from the brake.  His face had drawn into hard lines, his lips were set tight in intensity across the teeth so that they showed between in a thin line of white.  The blood seemed to have fascinated him; he was oblivious of her presence.  She heard him murmur, “Parvati, Parvati!  There is blood, blood—­wait, thou, Parvati.”

The bay Arabs—­perhaps their sensitive nostrils drank in the smell of fresh blood—­sprang into their collars as if they would bolt in fright.  The two syces, squatting on their heels at the horses’ heads, had sprung to their feet, and now were caressing the necks of the Arabs as they held them each with a hand by the bit.