“No; it was not his ruby; and to obtain it he will set Ajeet free.”

“I’ll do that, Gulab,” Barlow agreed, and the girl’s hand pushed up from the folds of the blanket to caress his cheek, and her face nestled against his shoulder.

The fingers thrilled him, and, though he had made solemn vow that he would ride like an anchorite, he bent his head and kissed her with a claiming warmth that caused her to cry out as if in misery.

Presently a whimsical fancy swayed the girl, and she said, “Ayub Alli!”

Barlow laughed, and answered:  “Bismillah!”

“So, Afghan, riding thus, it is not disrespect, just that we be of different faith, Hindu and Musselman.”

“If it were thus, we’d not part at Mandhatta.  And as to the faith, thou wouldst become a follower of the Prophet.”

“Yes, Bootea would.  If she could go forever thus she would sacrifice entrance to kailas.  But this is heaven; and perhaps Omkar, when I make the sacrifice—­I mean offering—­will listen to Bootea’s prayers, and—­and—­”

“And what, Gulab?” Barlow asked, for the girl turned her face against his breast, and her voice had smothered.

Their thoughts were distracted by a din in front that shattered the solemn hush of the night.  There was a thunderous beat of tom-toms, the shrill rasping screech of conch-shells, and in intervals of subversion of instrumental clamour they could hear women’s voices, high-pitched, singing the scahailia (song of joy).  Loud cries of “Jae, Jae, Omkar!” rose in a chorus from a hundred swelling throats.

At a turning around a huge banyan tree they saw the flickering flames of torches, and Barlow knew that plodding in front was a large body of pilgrims.

He quickened his horse’s pace, drawing Bootea closer to hide her from curious eyes, and as he passed the Hindus he knew from their scowling faces and cries of, “It is a Kaffir—­a barbarian!” that they took him for a Mussulman, perhaps one of Sindhia’s Arabs.

At the head of the procession, carried on a platform gaily decorated with gaudy cloths, borne on the shoulders of four men, was a figure of Ganesha.  The obese, four-armed, jovial son of Shiva, bobbing in the rhythmic stride of his carriers, seemed to nod his elephant head at the horseman approvingly, wishing him luck as was the wont of Ganesha.  The procession drove in upon Barlow’s mind the thought that they were nearing Mandhatta; he realised it with a pang of reluctance.  It seemed but a matter of just minutes since he had lifted Bootea to the saddle.

It had hurried the Gulab’s mind, too, for at another turn where the road slid into the valley, bringing to their nostrils the soft perfume of kush-kush grass and the savour of jamun that grew luxuriantly on the banks of the Narbudda, the Gulab asked:  “The Sahib will marry the young Memsahib who is at the city of the Peshwa?”