It was a fitful night’s sleep for Barlow; the beat of horses’ hoofs on the streets or the white sands beyond was like the patter of rain on a roof.  There were hoarse bull-throated cries of men who rode hither and thither; tremulous voices floated on the night air wild dirges, like the weird Afghan love song.  Sometimes a long smooth-bore barked its sharp call.  At sunrise the Captain was roused from this tiring sleep by the strident weird sing-song of the Mullah sending forth from a minaret of the palace his call to the faithful to prayer, prayer for the dead Chief.  And when the voice had ceased its muezzin: 

  “Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar;
  Confess that there is no God but God;
  Confess that Mohammad is the prophet of God;
  Come to Prayer, Come to Prayer,
  For Prayer is better than Sleep.”

the big drums sent forth a thundering reverberation.  He could hear the voices of the two women within, and called, “Bootea, Bootea!”

The Galub came shyly from the tent saying, “Salaam, Sahib.”  Then she stood with her eyes drooped waiting for him to speak.

“It is this, Bootea,” Barlow said, “do not go away until I am ready to depart, then I will take you where you wish to go.”

“If it is permitted, Sahib, I will wait,” she answered as simply as a child.

Barlow put a finger under her chin, and lifting her face smiled like a great boy, saying:  “Gulab, you are wonderfully sweet.”

Then Barlow went to the serai, looked after his horse, had his breakfast, and passed back into the town.  He saw a continuous stream of men moving toward the small river that swept southward, to the east of the town, and asking of one the cause was told that the ahiria (murderer)—­for now Hunsa was known as the murderer—­was being sent on his way.  The speaker was a Rajput.  “It is strange, Afghan,” he said, “that one who has slain the Chief of these wild barbarians, who are without gods, should be allowed to depart in peace.  We Rajputs worship a god that visits the sin upon the head of the sinner, but the order has been passed that no man shall harm the slayer of Amir Khan.  Perhaps it is whispered in the Bazaar that Commander Kassim coveted the Chiefship.”

Barlow being in the guise of a Musselman said solemnly:  “Allah will punish the murderer, mark you well, man of Rajasthan.”

“As to that, Afghan, one stroke of a tulwar would put the matter beyond doubt; as it is, let us push forward, because I see from yonder steady array of spears that the Pindaris ride toward the river, and I think the prisoner is with them.  It was one Hunsa, a thug, and though the thugs worship Bhowanee, they are worse than the mhangs who are of no caste at all.”