“Mem-sahib,” the Mohammedan called out in English, “do not look toward me, or all will be lost.  I am Ali, Bruce Sahib’s chief mahout; and we have believed you dead!  Take care!  I go to inform Ahmed.  Bruce Sahib has not returned.”

Kathlyn, when she heard that voice, shut her eyes.

Umballa had drawn closer.  There was something about this half veiled slave that stirred his recollection.  Where had he seen that graceful poise?  The clearness of the skin, though dark; the roundness of the throat and arms. . . .

“Three thousand rupees!”

The old mahout purred and smoothed his palms together.  Three thousand rupees, a rajah’s ransom!  He would own his elephant; his wife should ride in a gilded palanquin, and his children should wear shoes.  Three thousand rupees!  He folded his arms and walked gently to and fro.

“Five thousand rupees!” said Umballa, impelled by he knew not what to make this bid.

A ripple of surprise ran over the crowd.  The regent, the powerful Durga Ram, was bidding in person for his zenana.

Kathlyn’s nerves tingled with life again, and the sudden bounding of her heart stifled her.  Umballa!  She was surely lost.  Sooner or later he would recognize her.

The mahout stood up, delighted.  He was indeed fortunate.  He salaamed.

“Huzoor, she is gentle,” he said.

The high-caste who had bid 3,000 rupees salaamed also.

“Highness, she is yours,” he said.  “I can not bid against my regent.”

It was the custom to mark a purchased slave with the caste of her purchaser.  Umballa, still not recognizing her, waved her aside toward the Brahmin caste markers, one of whom daubed her forehead with a yellow triangle.  Her blue eyes pierced the curious brown ones.

“The sahib at the river,” she whispered in broken Hindustani.  “Many rupees.  Bring him to the house of Durga Ram.”  This in case Ali failed.

The Brahmin’s eyes twinkled.  Her Hindustani was execrable, but “sahib” and “river” were plain to his understanding.  There was but one sahib by the river, and he was the white hunter who had rescued the vanished queen from the ordeals.  He nodded almost imperceptibly.  Inwardly he smiled.  He was not above giving the haughty upstart a Thuggee’s twist.  He spoke to his neighbor quietly, assigned to him his bowls and brushes, rose, and made off.

“Follow me,” said Umballa to the happy mahout.  Presently he would have his bags of silver, bright and twinkling.

Fate overtook Ali, who in his mad race to Hare’s camp fell and badly sprained his ankle.  Moaning, less from the pain than from the attendant helplessness, he was carried into the hut of a kindly ryot and there ministered to.