The man on the charger eyed him sideways and passed on.  Mahommed Gunga waited.  One of the prince’s followers rode close to him—­leaned low from the saddle—­and leered into his face.

“Knowest not enough to salute thy betters?” he demanded.

Mahommed Gunga made a movement with his right hand in the direction of his left hip—­one that needed no explanation; the other legged his horse away, and rode on, grinning nastily.  To reassure himself of his superiority over everybody but his master, he spun his horse presently so that its rump struck against a tented stall, and upset tent and goods.  Then he spent two full minutes in outrageous execration of the men who struggled underneath the gaudy cloth, before cantering away, looking, feeling, riding like a fearless man again.  Mahommed Gunga sneered after him, and spat, and turned his back on the sunshine and the street.

“I had a mind to teach that Hindoo who his betters are!” he growled.

“Come in, risaldar-sahib!” said a voice persuasively.  “By your own showing the hour is not yet—­why spill blood before the hour?”

The Rajput swaggered to the dark door, spurs jingling, looking back across his shoulder once or twice, as though he half-regretted leaving the Hindoo horseman’s head upon his shoulders.

“Come in, sahib,” advised the voice again.  “They be many.  We are few.  And, who knows—­our roads may lie together yet.”

Mahommed Gunga kicked his scabbard clear, and strode through the door.  The shadows inside and the hum of voices swallowed him as though he were a big, red, black-legged devil reassimilated in the brewing broth of trouble; but his voice boomed deep and loud after he had disappeared from view.

“When their road and my road lie together, we will travel all feet foremost!” he asserted.

Ten turnings further away by that time, Rosemary McClean pressed on through the hot, dinning swarm of humanity, missing no opportunity to slip her pony through an opening, but trying, too, to seem unaware that she was followed.  She chose narrow, winding ways, where the awnings almost met above the middle of the street, and where a cavalcade of horsemen would not be likely to follow her—­only to hear a roar behind her, as the prince’s escort started slashing at the awnings with their swords.

There was a rush and a din of shouting beside her and ahead, as the frightened merchants scurried to pull down their awnings before the ruthless horse-men could ride down on them; the narrow street transformed itself almost on the instant into a undraped, cleared defile between two walls.  And after that she kept to the broader streets, where there was room in the middle for a troop to follow, four abreast, should it choose.  She had no mind to seek her own safety at the expense of men whose souls her father was laboring so hard to save.

She got no credit, though, for consideration—­only blame for what the swordsmen had already done.  One man—­a Maharati trader—­ half-naked, his black hair coiled into a shaggy rope and twisted up above his neck—­followed her, side-tracking through the mazy byways of the bewildering mart, and coming out ahead of her—­or lurking beside bales of merchandise and waiting his opportunity to leap from shadow into shadow unobserved.