Yasmini and Tess rode part of the way on an elephant, lying full-length in the hooded howdah with a view of all the country-side, starting before dawn and resting through the long heat of the day.  But monotony formed no part of Yasmini’s scheme of life, and daring was the very breath she breathed.  Most of the time they rode horseback together, disguised as men and taking to the fields whenever other parties drew too close.  But sometimes Yasmini left Tess on the elephant, and mingled freely with the crowd, her own resourcefulness and intimate knowledge of the language and the customs enough protection.

Nights were the amazing time.  A great camp spread out under ancient trees—­bonfires glowing everywhere, and native followers squatted around them,—­long, whinnying horse-lines—­elephants, great gurgling shadows, swaying at their pickets—­shouting, laughter, music,—­and, over all, soft purple darkness and the stars.

For it was something more than a mere polo tournament that they were traveling to.  It had grown out of a custom abolished by the government, of traveling once a year to Sialpore to air and consider grievances—­ a custom dating from long before the British occupation, when the princes of the different states were all in rival camps and that was about the only opportunity to meet on reasonably friendly terms.  In later years it had looked like developing into a focus of political solidity; so some ingenious commissioner had introduced the polo element, eliminating, item after item, all the rest.  Then the date had been changed to the early hot weather, in order to reduce attendance; but the only effect that had was to keep away the English from outlying provinces.  It was the one chance that part of Rajputana had to get together, and the Rajputs swarmed to the tournament—­along the main trunk road that the English had reconstructed in early days for the swifter movement of their guns. (It did not follow any particular trade route, although trade had found its way afterward along it.)

Yasmini saw Utirupa every night, she apparently as much a man as he in turban and the comfortable Rajput costume—­shorter by a bead, but as straight-standing and as agile.  Tess and Hasamurti used to watch them under the trees, ready to give the alarm in case of interruption, sometimes near enough to catch the murmured flow of confidence uniting them in secrecy of sacred, unconforming interviews.  It was common knowledge that Yasmini was in the camp, but she was always supposed to be tented safely on the outskirts, with her women and a guard of watchful servants all about her.  There was no risk of an affront to her in any case; it was known that Utirupa would attend to that.

Each night between the bonfires there was entertainment—­men who walked tight-ropes, wrestlers, a performing horse, ballad-singers and, dearest delight of all, the tellers of Eastern tales, who sat with silent rings of men about them and reeled off the old, loved, impossible adventures of the days when the gods walked with men on earth—­stories of miracles and love and derring-do, with heroes who could fight a hundred men unscathed, and heroines to set the heart on fire.