He caused more comment than she, and of a different kind.  His rose-pink pugree, with the egret and the diamond brooch to hold the egret in its place—­his jeweled sabre—­his swaggering, almost ruffianly air—­were no more meant to escape attention than his charger that clattered and kicked among the crowd, or his following, who cleared a way for him with the butt ends of their lances.  He rode ahead, but every other minute a mounted sepoy would reach out past him and drive his lance-end into the ribs of some one in the way.

There would follow much deep salaaming; more than one head would bow very low indeed; and in many languages, by the names of many gods, he would be cursed in undertones.  Aloud, they would bless him and call him “Heaven-born!”

But he took no interest whatever in the crowd.  His dark-brown eyes were fixed incessantly on Rosemary McClean’s back.  Whenever she turned a corner in the crowded maze of streets, he would spur on in a hurry until she was in sight again, and then his handsome, swarthy face would light with pleasure—­wicked pleasure—­self-assertive, certain, cruel.  He would rein in again to let her draw once more ahead.

Rosemary McClean knew quite well who was following her, and knew, too, that she could do nothing to prevent him.  Once, as she passed a species of caravansary—­low-roofed, divided into many lockable partitions, and packed tight with babbling humanity—­she caught sight of a pair of long, black thigh boots, silver-spurred, and of a polished scabbard that moved spasmodically, as though its owner were impatient.

“Mahommed Gunga!” she muttered to herself.  “I wonder whether he would come to my assistance if I needed him.  He fought once—­or so he says —­for the British; he might be loyal still.  I wonder what he is doing here, and what—­Oh, I wonder!”

She was very careful not to seem to look sideways, or seek acquaintance with the wearer of the boots; had she done so, she would have gained nothing, for the moment that he caught sight of her through the opened door he drew back into a shadow, and swore lustily.  What he said to himself would have been little comfort to her.

“By the breath of God!” he growled.  “These preachers of new creeds are the last straw, if one were wanting!  They choose the one soft place where Mohammedan and Hindoo think alike, and smite!  If I wanted to raise hell from end to end of Hind, I too would preach a new creed, and turn good-looking women loose to wander on the country-side!—­Ah!” He drew back even further, as he spied the egret and the sabre and the stallion cavorting down the street—­then thought better of it and strode swaggering to the doorway, and stood, crimson-coated, in the sunlight, stroking upward insolently at his black, fierce-barbered beard.  There was a row of medal ribbons on his left breast that bore out something at least of his contention; he had been loyal to the British once, whether he was so now or not.