“You have saved my life:  is there nothing I can do for you?”

“I have just told you what to do—­leave?”

Probably there would have been less promptness in complying with the command had there been less in uttering it.  As it was, Almos, without a word, motioned to the rest of his band, and led the way down the path in the direction of the stream, the four tramping after him like so many ragged phantoms.

Dr. Marlowe was more eager to leave the place than he would permit his child to know.  He had no faith in Almos’s promise, knowing that the Ghoojur chieftain would break his oath, which he and his brother fanatics did not consider binding when made to infidels, and the only hope, therefore, was for the fugitives to conceal themselves from the miscreants—­a thing which the physician’s intimate knowledge of the country would enable him to do.

Footfalls sounded along the path over which the two had just come, and a minute later Almos, Mustad and their three companions emerged into the opening and approached the couple, one of whom suspected nothing until her father spoke.

“Well, Almos, what do you want?” demanded Dr. Marlowe, calmly looking up at the Ghoojur chieftain, as he paused in front of him and made a salaam.

“We have come for the infidel and his daughter; our deen commands us to put them to death.”

“What does the oath you gave me a little while ago command you to do?”

“That was made to an infidel; it is not binding upon a true son of the Prophet.”

“A true son of the devil!” exclaimed the physician, unable to repress his rage.

Turning to his daughter, he said: 

“My child, you have a pistol; when they make a move, shoot; leave Almos to me and save your last bullet for yourself.”

“The infidels shall be destroyed everywhere,” said Almos; “none of the Inglese loge shall be left in India.  The faithful have risen and they will crush them all, for so commands the Prophet——­”

Dr. Marlowe had placed his hand on the butt of his revolver at his hip, meaning to whip out the weapon and fire before the miscreant had finished his high-sounding tomfoolery.  His daughter had also grasped hers, intending to obey to the letter the command of her parent, when the Ghoojur chieftain abruptly paused in his speech, staggered for a moment, and then sank to the ground like a bundle of rags, with the breath of life gone from his body.

The incident would have been as inexplicable to parent and child as to the Ghoojurs, had they not caught the faint, far-away report of a rifle, which, if heard by the bandits, was not associated by them with the startling thing that had taken place before their eyes.  But the doctor and Mary knew the connection.

And about half-a-mile away, on the top of that huge rock, hot enough under the flaming sun to roast eggs, Jack Everson had assumed the same position that he held the afternoon before on the bank of the Ganges, when he checked the advance of the Ghoojur horsemen across the river.  With the aid of the glasses, he had descried the forms of his beloved and her father when the bright eyes failed to detect his own.  Then, when about to start to join them, he observed their visitors, and the glass again helped to identify them, after which he “proceeded to business.”