And here, before them, stood Kharvani—­to the life!

“What of Kharvani?” growled Mahommed Khan.

“`A purblind fool, a sot and a Mohammedan,"’ quoted the priest maliciously, “`how many be they, three or one?’”

The Risaldar’s hand went to his scabbard.  His sword licked out free and trembled like a tuning-fork.  He flicked with his thumbnail at the blade and muttered:  “Sharp!  Sharp as death itself!”

The Hindu grinned, but the blade came down slowly until the point of it rested on the bridge of his nose.  His eyes squinted inward, watching it.

“Now, make thy gentle joke again!” growled the Risaldar.  Ruth Bellairs checked a scream.

“No blood!” she exclaimed.  “Don’t hurt him, Risaldar!  I’ll not have you kill a man in here—­or anywhere, in cold blood, for that matter!  Return your sword, sir!”

The Risaldar swore into his beard.  The High Priest grinned again.  “I am not afraid to die!” he sneered.  “Thrust with that toy of thine!  Thrust home and make an end!”

“Memsahib!” said the Risaldar, “all this is foolishness and waste of time!  The hour is past midnight and I must be going.  Leave the room—­leave me and my half-brother with this priest for five short minutes and we will coax from him the secret of some hiding-place where you may lie hid until I come!”

“But you’ll hurt him!”

“Not if he speaks, and speaks the truth!”

“Promise me!”

“On those conditions—­yes!”

“Where shall I go?”

The Risaldar’s eyes glanced toward the door of the inner room, but he hesitated.  “Nay!  There is the ayah!” he muttered.  “Is there no other room?”

“No, Risaldar, no other room except through that door.  Besides, I would rather stay here!  I am afraid of what you may do to that priest if I leave you alone with him!”

“Now a murrain on all women, black and white!” swore Mahommed Khan beneath his breath.  Then he turned on the priest again, and placed one foot on his stomach.

“Speak!” he ordered.  “What of Kharvani?”

“Listen, Mahommed Khan!” Ruth Bellairs laid one hand on his sleeve, and tried to draw him back.  “Your ways are not my ways!  You are a soldier and a gentleman, but please remember that you are of a different race!  I can not let my life be saved by the torture of a human being—­ no, not even of a Hindu priest!  Maybe it’s all right and honorable according to your ideas; but, if you did it, I would never be able to look my husband in the face again!  No, Risaldar!  Let this priest go, or leave him here—­I don’t care which, but don’t harm him!  I am quite ready to ride with you, now, if you like.  I suppose you have horses?  But I would rather die than think that a man was put to the torture to save me!  Life isn’t worth that price!”

She spoke rapidly, urging him with every argument she knew; but the grim old Mohammedan shook his head.