The village jutted out into the desert after the fashion of a peninsula.  On the west of it lay another stretch of sand.  They followed the verdure till they reached the base of the rocky hills, which were barren of any vegetation; huge jumbles of granite the color of porphyry.  During the night they made about ten miles, and at dawn were smothered by one of those raging sand-storms, prevalent in this latitude.  They had to abandon the trap cage and seek shelter in a near-by cave.  Here they remained huddled together till the storm died away.

“It has blown itself out,” commented the chief.  Then he spoke to Ramabai.  “Who is this man?” with a nod toward the colonel.

“He is an American.”

“He came for Allaha?”

“Yes,” said Ramabai unsuspiciously.

“Ha!  Then that great prince did not lie.”

“What prince?” cried Ramabai, now alarmed.

“The Prince Durga Ram.  Three fat bags of silver, he said, would he pay me for the white hunter with the white hair.  It is the will of Allah!”

The colonel’s head sank upon his knees.  Kathlyn patted his shoulder.

“Father, I tell you mind not the mouthings of a vile guru.  We shall soon be free.”

“Kit, this time, if I return to Allaha, I shall die.  I feel it in my bones.”

“And I say no!”

The chief turned to Ramabai.  “You and the woman with you shall this day seek two camels of the five you borrowed from Bala Khan.  You will journey at once to Allaha.  But do not waste your time in stopping to acquaint Bala Khan.  At the first sign of armed men each of those left shall die in yonder tiger cage.”

“We refuse!”

“Then be the first to taste the tiger’s fangs!”

The chief called to his men to seize Ramabai and Pundita, when Kathlyn interfered.

“Go, Ramabai; it is useless to fight against these men who mean all they say, and who are as cruel as the tiger himself.”

“It shall be as the Mem-sahib says,” replied Ramabai resignedly.

* * * * * *

One morning Umballa entered the judgment hall of the palace, disturbed in mind.  Anonymous notes, bidding him not to persecute Ramabai and his wife further, on pain of death.  He had found these notes at the door of his zenana, in his stables, on his pillows.  In his heart he had sworn the death of Ramabai; but here was a phase upon which he had set no calculation.  Had there not been unrest abroad he would have scorned to pay any attention to these warnings; but this Ramabai—­may he burn in hell!—­was a power with the populace, with low and high castes alike, and for the first time, now that he gave the matter careful thought, his own future did not look particularly clear.  More than ever he must plan with circumspection.  He must trap Ramabai, openly, lawfully, in the matter of sedition.