The chief mahout purchased for Kathlyn a beautiful saree, or veil, which partially concealed her face and hair.

“Chalu!” he said, touching Kathlyn’s shoulder, whenever she lagged, for they had dispensed with the litter, “Go on!”

She understood.  Outwardly she appeared passive enough, but her soul was on fire and her eyes as brilliant as those of the circling, whooping kites, watching that moment which was to offer some loophole.  On through the noisy bazaars, the object of many a curious remark, sometimes insulted by the painted women at the windows, sometimes jested at by the idlers around the merchants’ booths.  Vaguely she wondered if some one of her ancestors had not been terribly wicked and that she was paying the penalty.

It seemed to her, however, that a film of steel had grown over her nerves; nothing startled her; she sensed only the watchfulness she had often noted in the captives at the farm.

At length they came out into the busy mart.  The old mahout congratulated himself upon the docility of his find.  It would stiffen the bidding to announce that she was gentle.  He even went so far as to pat her on the shoulder.  The steel film did not cover all her nerves, so it would seem; the patted shoulder was vulnerable.  She winced, for she read clearly enough what was in the mind back of that touch.

She had made her plans.  To the man who purchased her she would assume a meekness of spirit in order to lull his watchfulness.  To the man who purchased her . . .  Kathlyn Hare!  She laughed.  The old man behind her nodded approvingly, hearing the sound but not sensing its import.  Ah, when the moment came, when the fool who bought her started to lead her home, she would beguile him and at the first sign of carelessness she would trust to her heels.  She knew that she was going to run as never a woman ran before; back to the beasts of the jungle, who at least made no effort to molest her so long as she kept out of their way.

Wild and beautiful she was as the old mahout turned her over to a professional seller.

“Circassian!”

“From the north!”

“A bride from the desert!”

“A yellow-hair!”

“A daughter of the north seas!”

The old mahout squatted close by and rubbed his hands.  He would be a rich man that night; bags of rupees; a well thatched house to cover his gray hairs till that day they placed him on the pyre at the burning ghat.  The gods were good.

Durga Ram, known familiarly as Umballa, at this hour came forth into the sunshine, brooding.  He was not in a happy frame of mind.  Many things lay heavy upon his soul; but among these things there was not one named remorse.  To have brought about all these failures this thought irked him most.  Here was a crown almost within reach of his greedy fingers, the water to Tantalus.  To have underestimated this yellow haired young woman, he who knew women so well—­there lay the bitter sting.  He had been too impetuous; he should have waited till all her fears had been allayed.  That spawn of Siva, the military, was insolent again, and rupees to cross their palms were scarce.  Whither had she blown?  Was she dead?  Was she alive?