In a hundred ages of the gods there is no glory like the glory of the hills.

Before Ganesh, the elephant-head, and Hanuman, the monkey-god, walked the night together, the snow-peaks of the Himalayas rose to the stars.

In the hills may a man find peace. Men die but the hills do not alter. They bless the eyes that look upon them. Where else is there such a place as this? Hindu saying

Dawn was striking against the snow peaks of the Koh-i-Baba Range, among the foothills of the Himalayas. It was the year of our Lord 1608, and of the Ox, by the Muslim calendar.

The sky behind the peaks was streaking red, but in the valleys the cold morning mist still held. Through the mist rose the black towers of Khanjut. There was just light enough to make out the upper surface of stones and the glint of running water, when a man bobbed to the center of a pool in the stream.

He had not stepped into the stream. He broke through the surface panting as if he had long held his breath, and swam soundlessly to the rocks at one side. He glanced back once over his shoulder at the loom of the towers in the midst and began to run forward up the rocky nullah.

The light was strong enough for him to choose his way, and he threaded the boulders in the manner of one who knew his course. On either side, thick-set pines pressed upon him. The summits of the cliffs over the pines were still invisible.

The man ran steadily upward, any noise that he made being lost in the rush of the stream. The spreading dawn overhead showed him naked to the waist—a lean, dark body, its white

muslin loincloth and trousers plastered tight by the water. A hillman—by his gait and his tireless progress—of the northern Afghan mountains.

At sight of light glinting on steel in a thicket ahead, the man swerved nimbly up into the pines. He caught the scent of the watchfire kindled by the sentries, whose helmets he had glimpsed, and passed the half-dozen figures lying about the embers without pausing.

Once safely by the outpost, he dropped into the trail that ran by the stream. Then he halted in his tracks, crouching instinctively as a cat does at sight of danger.

Ahead of him the figure of a sentry leaning on a spear was visible. The watcher was alarmed, had heard something, and was glancing into the pines with the indifferent caution of one who has been long on post and expects relief.

The hillman advanced swiftly, still crouching. Within two paces he leaped, metal gleaming in his hand as he did so. His free hand struck on the brow of the sentinel, two fingers catching in the nostrils, bending the other’s head back.

The hand with the dagger smote softly into the throat, above the coat of mail. Three times the hillman plunged his weapon in. Coolly he caught the spear that was about to fall to the stones. For a moment he held the sentry, then lowered the body to the ground.

Dexterously the slayer unlaced the throat fastenings of the Turkish mail and drew it over the head of the dead man. He donned the mail, tucking its loose ends into his loincloth. He put on the pointed Kallmark helmet, thrusting his long, black hair up under it as he did so.

Then he resumed his run up the nullah.

The sky was blue overhead—the clear, tranquil blue of Afghanistan—and the pines had turned from black to gray to green when the runner reached the summit of the pass and turned aside from the stream into a sheep-track.

He went forward more confidently now, as if he had left his enemies at his back. He had passed under the siege works of the enemy, slipped around the outpost in the nullah and was free from all except wandering cavalry patrols.

He avoided the caravan track that ran beside him, leading from Khanjut over the Shyr Pass to the Kabul Valley and to the city of that name, the farthest walled town of the Mogul, his Majesty, the King of Kings, whose court is a heaven, the shadow of God, Jahangir, emperor of India.

Then, crossing a cleared space, he came upon several horse-men. Their shaggy ponies and the bows slung at their shoulders indicated to him that they were Uzbeks, even if the distance was too great to distinguish their drooping mustaches and high cheekbones.

The hillman hesitated only a brief second and went on as if unconcerned. The Uzbeks glanced at his mail and were passing on when one reined in sharply and shouted a challenge, pointing at him.

The runner did not answer. Altering his course, he ran for the nearest pine grove. He had not noticed, or had forgotten, the crimson stain on his mail that had come from the throat of the man he had slain.

This was what had aroused the suspicion of the riders. They spurred after him with growling curses. An arrow flicked into the sod ahead of him.

His legs were moving more slowly now; yet he was near the protecting pines. He glanced back, calmly measuring the distance to his pursuers—and fell with an arrow in his thigh.

He was up at once, limping forward. He heard the beat of horses’ hoofs and wheeled, drawing his dagger with a grin of hate. The foremost horse ran him down. He struck vainly at the rider, who turned in the saddle.

The second Uzbek bent in his stirrups and slashed down with his scimitar. The curved blade bit deep through the mail; the hillman’s limbs twisted, then fell limp.

Dismounting, the Uzbeks inspected their victim. At a sign from the leader one tore open the dead man’s flimsy garments and ran his hand through the muslin. His effort was rewarded, for he stood up with a small square of parchment in his hand.

After a brief conference the leader of the patrol took the paper and the head of the runner and galloped off to the caravan track.

It was just after sunrise prayers that he threaded his way through the tents of the Uzbek camp, to the red felt yurt of Jani Beg, chieftain of the Uzbeks.

Jani Beg looked up as the guard at the door passed in the patrol leader. His broad, seamed face rested close to a pair of massive bent shoulders. A thin mustache drooped over a broad, hard mouth.

The eyes that scanned the newcomer sharply were peculiar. Jani Beg had tawny eyes, almost yellow, with the iridescent quality sometimes seen in those of an animal. The visitor put hand to forehead and bent in an uneasy salaam as he extended the paper, explaining how he had chanced upon it.

“The head is that of a thrice-cursed hillman,” he added. “But none of the ameers of the guard can read the missive. Thus it was that they ordered it brought before you.”

The eyes of Jani Beg focused on the man without expression. “Leave it and go!” he ordered in a high voice strange in a man of his bulk.

Idly he turned over the paper on the silk rug. He scanned the writing at first indifferently, then with as much curiosity as he ever permitted himself to show. Not for some time did he speak to the man at his side.

“May I rot on camel’s droppings, Shah Abbas! By the beard of my grandsire—may he rest in peace—but I know not this unblessed script.

“You are a learned man even among the astrologers and fools of Isphahan. You can recite the Koran and read the portents of the stars. Read me this!”

The Persian who sat on his heels at the farther side of the rug scanned the Uzbek coolly. Deciding that no affront was meant, he bent his bearded head over the missive.

Shah Abbas, chief of the Persian generals in the first decade of the early seventeenth century, was a bulky and handsome man. He formed a striking contrast to his gaunt companion. His mellow eyes were those of a voluptuous liver, his high, smooth brow under the heavy turban that of a philosopher and scholar.

He was a poet of no mean ability, a master of the chessboard, well versed in Greek medical lore and in the mingled culture of Damascus and Bokhara. A follower of no single religion, he was a diplomat of the highest intelligence, a plausible talker and a man without faith except when it suited him to keep his word.

His person, from the sky-blue cloak to the carefully trimmed beard and the silk vest that exuded musk, was that of a dandy— setting off the rough, fur-trimmed tunic of Jani Beg, and the latter’s dingy morocco shoes.

“Who am I,” he responded in limpid Persian, “to interpret this thing, which the wisdom of Jani Beg has failed to read?”

“Dog of Satan!” fretted Jani Beg. “Did I ask for riddles from your smooth cat’s tongue? Read me this writing!”

The Persian stroked his beard delicately and surveyed the rubies on his plump fingers with the utmost calm.

“It is written, Jani Beg, in the books of wisdom, that by his words the speaker may be known. Doubtless you are familiar with the breeds of dogs, even mongrels. Were not your grandsires mongrels?”

Jani Beg’s hazy eyes glowed with a sullen fire. Few men dared to match words with him.

“Aye, you know that I am descended from Timurlane the Great. Where is the equal of the lame Conqueror?”

“Doubtless,” purred Shah Abbas. “Yet it is a strange thing, for while the Conqueror was lame, he was a man of honor and he lacked not wits.”

The Uzbek glowered. “Ho—you prate like a woman. We Mongols care not for the dusty Persian plain.”

“Aye, the dust of Persia is not to be compared with the glories of the Mongol steppe.”

“You are ripe with words. You are not the same figure with a sword as with speech.”

“Nay, I waste not good steel upon a boaster.”

Jani Beg’s hand jerked toward the hilt of his scimitar. Shah Abbas surveyed him mildly and he dropped his hand. He could not afford to quarrel with the powerful Persian and the latter knew it. At mutual recrimination Shah Abbas was much the better.

Both were serving the same cause. Jani Beg had volunteered to serve the Mogul himself in the northern hills, and for a space Isphahan was at peace with Delhi. The Uzbek chieftain had sent Shah Abbas treasure to the amount of a dozen camel-loads of gold to come to aid him in Afghanistan.

The Persian had come with several thousand picked and excellently mounted horsemen, for two reasons. He knew that Jani Beg was at war with Shirzad Mir, known in Persia as Shah Beg, who was his own enemy, and he knew that Jani Beg had reasons for sending for him other than the crushing of a few hundred hillmen under Shirzad Mir, beleaguered in Khanjut.

But for the moment both ostensibly were acting in the interest of the Mogul and must remain friends.

“Nay,” muttered Jani Beg with ill grace, “I meant not to offend you. But surely your wisdom can decipher this accursed missive. It may be a matter of moment, and I am not learned in script.”

Shah Abbas shrugged his plump shoulders “The writing is not Turki and certainly not Persian. Nor is it the tongue of Hind. Nor Greek, with which I am familiar.”

Both stared at the letter in silence, and in both minds was the same thought. The bearer should not have been slain. Torture— molten silver poured into ears or the fire-pencil applied to the man’s eyes—would have elicited the truth of the matter. Now all they knew was that the missive had been sent from the citadel

of Khanjut down the pass toward India. Jani Beg, in spite of his professed ignorance, was scholar enough to be aware that his companion spoke the truth concerning it.

As a matter of fact, the intercepted message—which never reached its destination—read as follows:

To the Notorious and Honourable Captain Hawkins, Servant in like Manner as the Writer to

Our Sovereign Lord, James I, king of England— Greetings from ye Fortress of Khanjoot

in N.W. Ind, N. of Kabool.

It has been told by divers Personne that ye be laden for Surat, with certain Goodes. Wherefore, sink the Fleete of the Portugals to Hell in Surat, and make shift to accompanie me to the Moghooul with a Companie of Musket Men and Falcon Gunnes.

I have beene kept from the Personne of ye Moghool by divers evil Strata gies of ye Portugals; still, I have taken Oath to gain the Trade for Our Lord, and this I shall yet do with the Grace of God; despite the Portugals, who are like to mad Dogges, labouring to work my Passauge out of the World.

I shall contrive to haste to meet you, as beseemeth fittinge, despite the black Peril frome ye Idol ators and Portugals alike.

The name signed to the scrawled and misspelled missive was that of Ralph Weyand.

“It may work us evil; we had best be rid of it.”

Jani Beg took up the letter in his huge claw of a hand and tore it into shreds. These he tossed indifferently into the brazier that warmed the interior of the yurt.

“And now, Lion of Persia,” he whispered shrilly, “I would tell you a thought that is in my mind.”

Shah Abbas yawned and felt for the gold box of hashish that hung from his girdle.

“Truly,” he responded, “I find you and your thoughts wearisome. I came not to the hills to sit on my haunches before Khan-jut.”

“A wise man chooses a goodly weapon of the best temper to deal a death blow. Perhaps you are the weapon to fit my hand.”

“Is this your wisdom?”

Shah Abbas smiled enigmatically, as if at the reflection that he should be a tool of Jani Beg.

“It is a fitting time to strike—for ourselves.”

“At yonder miserable hillmen?”

“Nay, elsewhere. Perhaps—” Jani Beg’s yellow eyes grew lustrous—“perhaps at one who is at Kabul.”

The Persian, in spite of his habitual indifference, drew in his breath sharply.

“Have care!”

He glanced swiftly at the yurt entrance.

“Have you grown mad by the moon to say this aloud! The Mogul is in Kabul.”

“Aye, Jahangir is visiting the gardens of Kabul.”

For a long second the two measured glances. Then the Persian rose.

“Verily madness has come upon you,” he sighed. “But this tent is no place for speech.”

He led the way without. The red tent of Jani Beg stood on a hillock which overlooked the plain before Khanjut, the camp of the Uzbek and Persian besiegers, and the trenches built up the slope of the citadel.

It was a fair scene for a soldier’s eyes, and Shah Abbas was a veteran of many wars. Banners fluttered in the breeze beside the tents of his Persians. High piles of stores were ringed about by tethered camels.

On the Uzbek side of the encampment there was less display; the men were quartered in haphazard fashion, but their shaggy horses were well cared for and their foragers dotted the distant fertile plain.

Captured Afghans were laboring in the trenches and saps that were slowly eating their way up the slope of Khanjut. A high mound of earth had been built; from its summit brass cannon belonging to the Persians pointed their carved and ornamented muzzles toward the walls.

At intervals, these cannon spoke and a swirl of smoke drifted over the camp. The wall opposite the earth mound was crumbling.

Occasionally the sunlight glinted on arrows that sped upward from the Uzbek trench, from behind the shelter of giant trees laid with their tops toward the walls. Behind this trench loomed the bare timbers of a battering machine, as they called it—a survival of the Middle Ages that served to cast rocks against the walls.

Boulders thrown down from the Khanjut ramparts had disabled the battering machine. But the Persian cannon were safe from harm.

In the course of time, as water eats through a dike, they would breach the stone wall that surmounted the rocky mass of Khan-jut. Barrels of powder assembled at the head of saps at other points would be fired and Persian and Uzbek would surge to the attack.

The scene of bee-like activity, revealed by the clear sunlight, pleased Shah Abbas—even as the sight of the green hills and the snow peaks in the distance appealed to his poetic sense, stirred by the hashish, which had begun to have effect. He smiled at the gangs of sweating prisoners that were herded past the hillock— women as well as men—gleaned from the peasantry of the plain by his horsemen.

A goodly scene, he reflected, but one of little moment. The crushing of a rebel hill chief was scarcely game worth the hunting. It was pleasanter and less troublesome to fly falcons at the game-birds of the Koh-i-Baba or to linger in the rose-gardens of Isphahan...

This brought him sharply back to Jani Beg’s remark. The two stood apart on the hillock and the Uzbek was smiling at him intently.

“Persia is at peace with Jahangir—for a space,” he purred, stroking the gems on his fingers. “It has been said by those who are loose of tongue that the Mogul lacks the generalship and fire of Akbar, his father.”

“They spoke truth. Jahangir is hot-headed and impulsive. His head falls easy victim to wine-fumes—or flattery.”

“There are rare wines at Kabul.”

Smilingly Shah Abbas repeated a verse to the effect that a man who feasts well must prepare to drink the cup of death. Jani Beg was still watching him narrowly. The Persian was a past master at saying what he did not think.

“There is better sport than looking at the bottom of the wine cup, Shah Abbas.”

“Aye, God has given us slender women—”

“A nobler sport, even for Jahangir, the shadow of God on earth, is—warfare. I have sent him two lakhs of rupees with the humble request that he deign to visit this camp and see the fall of Khanjut.”

Shah Abbas was silent for the space of a breath.

“It will be a pleasant sight. The hillmen have a proverb that Khanjut will never be taken by storm. It will please the eyes of the Mogul,” Shah Abbas responded indifferently. “How came it that Shirzad Mir, chieftain of these Afghan hillmen, rebelled against Jahangir?”

“Shirzad Mir was my enemy,” said Jani Beg. “I picked a quarrel with him and dispatched shrewd men with presents to the Mogul offering my fealty. Shirzad Mir, having been regent of the Mogul Akbar in the hills, was late with his offer of service to Jahangir. It was not hard to convince those at the Delhi court that Shirzad Mir was a rebel—especially as I had already gained the ascendency over him in the field.”

Jani Beg lowered his voice.

“Your wisdom has read aright that I have other things in view than the crushing of Shirzad Mir and the barbarous Englishman with him. I seek power. You also thirst for conquest. The sword of Persia is sharp, so keen that it might cut even the pearl tiara from the turban of a Mogul.”

Apparently Shah Abbas was tranquil, but the pulse in his throat throbbed strongly. Jani Beg did not miss this.

“What is the Mogul but the Muslim master of many peoples? A figurehead over armies of a dozen faiths?” he whispered. “Wherein lies the control of India, save in the person of the Mogul?”

“That person is well guarded. And the witless Rájputs serve him because his mother was of their race. Who could stand against the horsemen of Marwar?”

“No one—in the plains of Hindustan. Here in the hills—” Jani Beg glanced at the towering slopes at their backs—“it is another matter. Likewise the main army of the Rájputs is but returning to Delhi, after subduing a revolt in the Dekkan. Jahangir has with him many followers, but not an army.”

“Think you he will turn his horse toward Khanjut?”

“Aye—he loves to be amused. He will come to see the hunting-down of Shirzad Mir, whom he believes to be a traitor. Harken, Shah Abbas, may not other snares be set? Greater game hunted? Who would trap a wolf when a stag may be pulled down?”

This time there was no mistaking Jani Beg’s meaning. A flush dyed the yellow cheeks of the Persian.

“What snare can be set for a stag?”

The Uzbek laughed and pointed to the camp. He was more certain of his companion now, knowing the hereditary enmity between Persian and Mogul. But it would not do to commit him-self fully as yet.

“When a stag walks into the hunters’ toils, who is to blame?” he whispered. “Jahangir is not overcautious. We have twelve thousand retainers.

“If the Mogul should fall ill we might be forced to guard his sacred person. Aye, even to advance upon the rich city of Kabul, and then Lahore. We would gain allies among the Mohammedans north of the Indus. I—” a fleeting smile crossed his hard mouth— “have become a follower of the Prophet. Why not? If the Mogul should fall ill—”

A warning glance from Shah Abbas silenced him.

“Peace! This is the speech of madness.”

He leaned closer to the Uzbek.

“Nay, sometimes it is folly to be sane. We will talk again. Yonder is the Rájput of Jahangir, his beloved watchdog.”

Approaching the knoll was the slim figure of Raja Man Singh in a close-fitting white silk tunic. He rode a splendid Arabian, and the sun struck upon jewels in his saddle peak, on his sword hilt and turban.

He dismounted gracefully and came toward the two—a tall, long-striding warrior with delicate, boyish features and a frame that appeared too fragile to be that of one of the most noted swordsmen of Hindustan. He greeted the two carelessly.

“Ho, Jani Beg, the sun is at the hour you appointed for our conference. What have you to say?”

He spoke proudly. This pride—characteristic of the Rájput princes, who held themselves superior to nobles of other races, who boasted that they were descended from the sun-born kings of Ayodhya, from the mighty Ram himself—grated on his two allies. Raja Man Singh cared little what they thought, being of the blood of the Ranas of Chitore and Oudh, and the chosen companion of Jahangir.

Jani Beg peered up at him inscrutably.

“How like you the service of the Mogul?” he asked slowly. “Is it to your taste to wait upon the word of another man? I have marked your courage and ability, Raja. You are one who should lead and not follow.”

“Siva! Am I not a leader? Have we of the Rájputs not a hundred thousand swords at our command? Did we not subdue the Dekkan for Jahangir?”

“For Jahangir, not yourself.”

“Even so. He is of our blood, by his mother, and our faith— those who know him well know this. Jahangir is more Hindu than Muslim. Our fathers gave their fealty to Akbar; we are true to their word.”

He stared disdainfully at the two. Shah Abbas made a warning sign to the Uzbek. It would not do to say too much to the Rájput. Nevertheless, he could not refrain from a barbed shaft of witticism.

“We have marked a stag nearby,” he purred. “A noble animal,

by my faith! Jani Beg says the hunters have set the toils.” He smiled contentedly at the baneful glare of the Uzbek. “A stag!”

The Rájput’s sleepy, opium-darkened eyes opened in interest. “And a noble head! By the sword of Ram, let us ride him down. Snares are for the low-born. Come!”

“To ride him down would be—dangerous.”

The Rájput’s lip curled scornfully.

“Nay,” put in Jani Beg hastily, “Shah Abbas jests. I asked you hither, Raja, to learn your opinion of the siege. Think you it progresses favorably? Will our plans meet with the approval of your master?”

He emphasized the last word slightly, but the Rájput took no heed.

“Aye, well enough,” he grumbled. “Yet this digging and bombarding is the work of peasants. Give the word to storm the walls. The hillmen are few.”

“Yet Shirzad Mir is their leader.”

“Ho!”

Raja Man Singh laughed. “You have crossed swords with him before, Shah Abbas, at the siege of Kandahar. It has made you cautious. Siva Koh—”

“Not so,” put in Jani Beg smoothly, noting the quick flush that overspread the Persian’s olive throat. “We delay the assault for another reason. This is the news I promised you. Jahangir himself and his court may come hither from Kabul. When he arrives we will launch the storm and raise the standard of the Mogul for his pleasure—”

“By the gods!”

The Rájput’s white teeth flashed in a delighted smile.

“That is news as sweet as the snow-cooled wine of Kashmir.” “Under the eye of Jahangir, you and the Rájputs of the court will doubtless desire to lead the assault.”

“What else? Since the birth of Ram the warriors of the raj have taken the front of the battle. Truly we have but few of our race with the Mogul at present; yet we will show your northern dullards how to wield sword.”

“Since you ask it, we will grant the favor,” assented Jani Beg.

Shah Abbas smiled, stroking his beard gently. His respect for the Uzbek was growing. If the Rájputs led the assault many would be slain, and while they were engaged at the wall—

“The hillmen grow weaker daily from hunger,” he added tranquilly.

“Not so,” corrected Raja Man Singh. “Look yonder. It struck my gaze as I rode hither.”

He pointed toward an open space on the walls. The cold Autumn air which caused the heat-accustomed Rájput to shiver revealed the distant scene in clear detail.

On the roof of a Khanjut building several men sat at meat. The watchers on the knoll could see attendants bringing bowls and vessels of food and wine.

“I went near the spot, for I was curious,” he explained. “They shot arrows at me; nevertheless, I saw they were partaking of rich food. Is this a sign of starvation? Rather, it is a feast of plenty.”

“That must be Shirzad Mir and his accursed companions,” ventured Jani Beg. “Aye, it is a sign.”

“Of abundance. They feast openly to let us know they lack not.”

Shah Abbas frowned meditatively.

“I have reason to suspect the cunning of Shirzad Mir,” he murmured. “It is more like that this scene is planned to deceive us.” Jani Beg grunted disdainfully.

“What else? Opium has eaten up your wit, Raja. Shirzad Mir feasts to conceal from us that they have little food. The garrison is near starvation.”

“But I saw meat and fruit,” insisted the Rájput, who did not love to be contradicted.

“Send an envoy into Khanjut to parley on some pretext or other and spy out the truth of this,” grumbled Jani Beg. “I can spare no time for such child play. I have said our enemies lack food. It is the truth.”

II

On a sunny spot overlooking the wall of Khanjut a carpet had been spread and a white cloth upon this. At either end of the cloth two men were seated. Before each was an array of bowls containing curried rice, spiced mutton, sugared fruits, jellies and beakers of good Shiraz wine.

“Drink, my excellent Ferang,” quoth the stout man in the flowing khalat.

“Aye, drink, Shirzad Mir,” cried the powerful Englishman in the leather surcoat and green cap. “This feast must serve our bellies for two days.”

“May God grant it serves our foes with the thought we have food a-plenty.”

“Amen.”

Sir Ralph Weyand lifted his glass, shaking back the tawny curls that ringed his sun-burnt forehead. His gray eyes were alight with grim humor. The hand that held the beaker was veined and corded—an indication of the muscular strength concealed in his stocky frame.

“To my sovereign, the king of England,” he added soberly in his own tongue.

“May the mercy of Allah give us aid,” responded Shirzad Mir, not understanding.

“And speed the runner with my message.”

“If it is the will of Allah.”

Sir Ralph eyed his portly companion with affectionate interest.

“Truly, our lot is wretched, Shirzad Mir. A rebel baron, you— trapped by pride, Jani Beg’s gold, allegiance to your fathers, devil knows what. It matters not.”

“All things are written in the book of fate by the hand of the angels.”

“Perhaps. They wrote my poor destiny in ill fashion. Spurned from Jahangir’s court by the evil-tongued Portuguese, half-poisoned and starved in these friendless hills—”

“Nay, I am your friend.”

“Granted,” said the Englishman warmly. “I ask for none better. ’Tis well! We are yet alive, and here is—wine.”

“The sweeper-away of care.”

Shirzad Mir lay back comfortably on his pillows and sipped at his cup.

“May we confound our enemies,” he added.

“Perchance we may, if the Afghan with my billet escaped through the underground watercourse to the hills.”

Sir Ralph drained his beaker at one throw and sighed. He glanced appraisingly over the siege-works below them, and noted the flight of an arrow overhead. Standing by the battlement a few yards away were several Afghans, who watched them eat enviously. The men were gaunt with hunger.

The Englishman signed to one of the attendants.

“I have finished,” he said gruffly. “Take these bowls to the sentries yonder.”

While the hungry soldiers ate and Shirzad Mir, who with all his good qualities lacked solicitude for his men, stared quizzically, a slave salaamed and announced the coming of the mansabdar, Abdul Dost.

Adbul Dost was commander of the garrison, a long-striding Muslim with one cheek mutilated by a scimitar stroke. He raised his hand with dignity at sighting the two.

“Peace be unto you, Shirzad Mir,” he greeted his master. “And unto you be peace.”

“The Rájput general, Raja Man Singh, has sent an envoy to the road that winds up to the gate. I spoke with him when he made a sign of peace. He would parley terms with you.”

Shirzad Mir adjusted himself comfortably and sipped at his wine. His broad brow puckered in thought.

“Our trick has born fruit,” laughed Sir Ralph. “Yonder chieftains think we have food in plenty.”

Shirzad Mir glanced up at the mansabdar.

“What think you, Abdul Dost?”

“Does a tiger play with a trapped goat?”

“When it suits his whim,” meditated the mir. “Say you the man came from the Rájput?”

“Aye.”

“Then this is something evil. For Jani Beg would parley with hell itself, but the Rájput prefers to let his sword do the talking. Nay—!” he clapped his hands delightedly—“I have it. Our foes seek to learn whether we truly have food in the granary!”

“Then we should not admit the envoy,” suggested Sir Ralph; but Shirzad Mir grew thoughtful.

“Not so. Verily it is written that a wise man profits by his enemy’s mistake. Come, we will prepare a spectacle for the Rájput’s man. Ho, Abdul Dost!”

He scrambled to his feet nimbly, for all his bulk. His broad face gleamed with childlike pleasure at a new thought.

Shirzad Mir, once regent of Akbar, lord of Badakshan and the Koh-i-Baba, was little more than an overgrown child. Impulsive and unsuspicious, he lacked the craft of his enemies—which was why he fought ever against odds. Petulant as a woman, indifferent to good or ill fortune, he had a generosity and sheer courage that kept friends steadfast until the end.

“Muster half the garrison, Adbul Dost. Count off gangs of a dozen, and send them into the cellar granary. Fetch forth every sack of grain and stack them along the alleys leading from the gate to the center of the garden. Haste!”

The mansabdar hesitated.

“Pour the grain on the ground along the way the envoy is led.” Shirzad Mir stamped his foot impatiently.

“Fetch every sack. Order no one to touch the grain, under pain of being beaten by bamboos. Keep the envoy waiting without the

gate until this thing is done. Eh, he will then see what he came to see.”

“But our men, lord—”

“See that they obey. Go!”

So it happened that when the emissary entered the gate of Khanjut, across the drawbridge that spanned the moat, some hours later, he saw a strange sight.

Grain, gray and golden, lay strewn in every quarter. Men passed indifferently over the piles and horses nibbled hungrily at it. Even oxen bearing carts along the alleys paused to snatch up a mouthful.

As he had been instructed by the raja, the man kept his eyes open. He was suspicious, but he saw nothing amiss. He left Khan-jut after some empty words concerning a truce which neither side believed possible. And he was convinced that Shirzad Mir and his men did not lack grain.

He did not see, after his departure, that a hundred men fell upon the grain piles and stowed them into sacks which were carried back under armed guard to the granary. Or that half-famished horses came to nuzzle scattered particles along the alleys, and boys fought each other for a fistful of the golden treasure plucked from the passing sacks. Or that the men of the garrison muttered angrily as they boiled their half rations of rice over the fire that evening.

“Grain they have in plenty,” he informed Raja Man Singh and the two leaders. “It is stored haphazard in the filth of the alleys and the animals eat of it when they will.”

“This must be true,” announced the Rájput triumphantly. “That is well, for who would fight a starved foe?”

Jani Beg and Shah Abbas glanced at each other significantly.

“If Shirzad Mir,” continued the chivalrous raja, “had lacked food, I would have sent it in to him. It is the law of the raj that one of our blood may not strike a weakened foe.”

At sundown a week later there was unwonted activity in the courtyard that led to the main gate of the castle. For the first time

in a week a dense mist overspread the plain below Khanjut—the forerunner of the Winter mists.

Abdul Dost, mounted on a fine Kabul stallion, was grimly seeing to the mustering of a group of picked horsemen. As the last rim of the sun vanished over the blue summits, the horsemen, led by the mansabdar, heard a long, quavering cry from one of the towers. To a man they dismounted and kneeled on the stones of the court, facing the Kaaba.

It was the hour of sunset prayer.

“Lailat el kadr,” cried the mollah. “Allah il, Akbar!” “Allah il Akbar!,” repeated the deep-throated chorus. Shirzad Mir and Sir Ralph, stepping from a tower door, halted

at sight of the tableau.

The genial face of the mir was more sober than usual.

“I have a foreboding, Sir Ralph,” he said gravely. “Perhaps the hand of fate has written in the page of destiny that our plan is not to prosper. I know not.”

“Your offer was generous,” responded the Englishman bluntly. “Still, I like not to risk the lives of many when I might go alone through the secret watercourse under the walls and swim out into the mountain stream.”

“By the face of the Prophet!” protested his companion. “Am I a jackal to send you unescorted into peril? Nay, it is written that peril shared among friends is a feast. Yet I like not to part with you.”

“We have decided. I am useless here. By now my messenger will be well into Hindustan, on the way to Surat. It is time I followed.”

“Think you the other Ferang will truly be at the seaport? I have heard it is fortified by the Portuguese.”

“The more reason that Hawkins will come to Surat,” said Sir Ralph grimly. “When I was last at Agra I heard it rumored that the English fleet lay at Mozambique. It was agreed before I left England that Hawkins would visit Surat this year. He will arrive before the Winter season sets in.”

“I know not of such matters.”

Shirzad Mir glanced at his sturdy companion regretfully.

“By the beard of my grandsire, I have a heavy foreboding. I fear that I will not set eyes on you again.”

“Nay, I shall return to Khanjut. Think you I would leave as a coward flees, glad to set his back to danger?”

“Not I. Yet how will you do this thing? Granted that you meet with the other Ferang noble and that many ships are with him, you cannot sail ships to Khanjut.”

The Englishman tightened the saddlebags and the girths of his horse. Lighted candles appeared among the men who were now— having finished their prayers—quietly mounting.

“We will go to the Mogul, Captain Hawkins and I. He will bring letters and presents from the English court. Likewise he will have musketmen and cannon. Jahangir will listen to the message from my king.”

An eager light shone in the Englishman’s honest face.

“Those at court have seen me but once. They will not mark my presence among the new embassy until the message is delivered. Then I shall ask pardon for you and those at Khanjut.

“I will explain how Jani Beg has deceived the Mogul and made you appear a traitor. Jahangir will listen, for I speak his tongue, and—he will respect the power of England that has sent a score of ships half around the world.”

He struck his fist forcibly on the saddle.

“A great company has been formed in my country to bring the benefits of trade to India. Your people and mine are destined to be friends. The English deal fairly with those to whom they offer the hand of friendship—”

“But the Portuguese—”

“We will deal with them shrewdly if they hinder us. This time we will have an ample force of armed men.”

Shirzad Mir puckered his brow. To him Jahangir was monarch of the world and the court at Delhi the center of the universe. He did not credit the intriguing nobles at court with respect for an

unknown ruler whose servants appeared as if by magic out of the southern sea.

“What will be, will be. We cannot escape our fate, Sir Ralph. Ho—” the bored look vanished from his bland countenance at a fresh thought—“by the beard of the Prophet, I shall ride with Abdul Dost when his men cut a path for you through the tents of our foes. Ho, Abdul Dost! My horse!”

The Englishman protested against the risk Shirzad Mir was taking, but the impulsive chieftain would not wait even for his armor.

Abdul Dost, also, found his objections overruled.

“Dog of the devil, Abdul Dost!” cried his master. “Said I not I had a foreboding concerning this sally party? I will lead it myself, and if it is the will of God I will tumble Jani Beg’s red tent over his ears.

“I will trim Shah Abbas’s beard,” he muttered delightedly. “Have the houris of paradise grown ill-favored, Abdul Dost, that you shirk sword blows riding bridle to bridle with Shirzad Mir? Nay, lead on, or you stay behind the walls of Khanjut.”

Sir Ralph had adjusted the trappings of his horse to his satisfaction. He was more at home on the poop of a ship than in a saddle, but in the sally they planned it was necessary for him to be mounted.

The venture, although daring, promised success, thanks to the mist. The camp in the plain was spread over a wide area. Once past the entrenchments of the foe it would be possible to strike swiftly through the tents and escort the Englishman out to the open plain.

Free of the Persian lines—they had chosen the Persian camp as the most vulnerable—Sir Ralph was to circle to the Koh-i-Baba hills and strike through the Shyr Pass to the South.

The enemy would not be prepared for a sally, and once the group of horsemen had won back to the Khanjut wall, they would

not think to look for a lone rider on the plain. And the mist would serve as a veil for what passed.

In fact, the danger would be greater for the horsemen riding back after the sally than for Sir Ralph. It was this that had made him reluctant to try the sortie. But Shirzad Mir would not be denied.

They walked their horses through the open gate and felt the cold mist strike their faces. It seemed to Adbul Dost, who was a veteran at night warfare, that the mist was thinning more than they had thought, looking down on it from the battlements.

Nevertheless, they pressed ahead as silently as possible, listening to the calls that passed from sentry to sentry along the entrenchments. There was no sound except a muffled jingle as a horse tossed its head, or an unavoidable click of hoof on stone.

Abdul Dost had effectively discouraged the presence of enemy outposts nearer than the first of the siege works. He had marked out in his mind the course that he would follow, down the ramp, out along the road, down the gentler slope to the plain. Then sharply to the left, past the earth mound that served as foundation for the Persian guns.

Here there were no trenches dug and the way was clear to the tents.

He led Shirzad Mir and the Englishman to the bottom of the winding road. They paused for several moments to note if they had been observed and to permit the horsemen in the rear to come up with them. The lights of the watch fires seemed peculiarlv clear to Sir Ralph, and he touched Abdul Dost on the arm.

“The mist is thinning,” he whispered.

“B ’illah!” grunted the mansabdar, casting a swift glance up-ward.

The stars were clear to view.

“No matter,” urged Shirzad Mir impatiently. “We have come this far and we will not turn back without a few good sword strokes. Come!”

He spurred his horse forward, and Abdul Dost set his into a trot. They could see the earth mounds of the entrenchments on either hand and the occasional blurred form of a sentry. Sounds of revelry and quarreling came from the camp ahead, partially drowning the growing beat of the horses’ hoofs.

A hasty challenge rang out in front of them. Abdul Dost reined his horse forward and struck down the sentinel, who had scram-bled sleepily to his feet.

“Haste!” cried Shirzad Mir.

The trained horsemen behind them closed in and the troop thundered around the base of the artillery mound. Torches flashed along the lines in front. Startled cries resounded.

They swung past the mound and galloped into the torchlight. Foot outposts fled away from their course.

“Shirzad el kadr!” they cried.

“—and Satan’s beldame!” swore Abdul Dost, pulling in his mount and snatching at the bridle of Shirzad Mir.

Across their course, hidden until now by the earth mound, was a line of felled trees formed into a chevaux-de-f rise. A network of tangled branches stretched between them and the tents.

The Persians had not lacked the forethought to guard their camp against just such a sally.

Likewise a dozen alarm flares were kindling into glow, lighting the scene clearly. Abdul Dost saw at once that they were in grave danger if they should press on. But his attempt to check his master had been fruitless.

The lord of Badakshan spurred on along the line of branches, seeking a path through the obstacle. Perforce his men followed. Each moment the glow was revealing more clearly the secret of their scanty numbers.

The few foot soldiers in front of the barrier were cut down. But the commotion in the camp beyond showed that the Persian horse were assembling.

“Ho níla—ki aswár!” came an answering shout from the tents. “The Rájputs,” muttered Abdul Dost grimly. “This is an ill place. We must go back—”

A splendid Arab cleared the chevaux-de-frise in front of Shirzad Mir. The figure in its saddle was familiar to them all. Raja Man Singh had not waited for his men before riding to repel the sortie. He faced them with drawn scimitar, a slender warrior sitting his horse magnificently.

“Eh—that was well done!” laughed Shirzad Mir, spurring for-ward. “You shall not lack for sword strokes, Rájput!”

He pressed forward, swinging his curved blade. The raja waited his coming tranquilly. The two swords flew together, flashed and struck again.

The Rájput drew his mount nearer his enemy. While the horse-men watched, their swords thrust and parried at close quarters. The force of his onset lost, Shirzad Mir paid for his boldness in engaging the finest swordsman of Hindustan.

He guarded his head with difficulty, panting as he turned his stout body in the saddle. Raja Man Singh smiled, drawing closer until they were knee to knee. A swift stroke, and his scimitar bit deep into the side of Shirzad Mir under the armpit.

The lord of Badakshan swayed in his saddle, but did not loosen his grip on his weapon. Abdul Dost, frantic with fear for his master, reined his horse between the two and engaged the triumphant Rájput.

“Back to Khanjut, dogs!” he cried over his shoulder. “See to Shirzad Mir! Bowmen, form a rear guard.”

Raja Man Singh was now fronted with a swordsman of equal skill, and neither of the two veterans were able to break through the other’s guard until Abdul Dost, seeing that his men were drawing back with their wounded lord, wheeled and galloped back under cover of a flight of arrows.

The archers kept to the rear while Shirzad Mir was led up the castle road. Sir Ralph and Abdul Dost were the last to ride up to

the gates, where a hundred archers on the walls kept their pursuers under the leadership of the impetuous Rájput at a distance.

The gates of Khanjut closed behind them, shutting out the tumult of the camp.

They had paid heavily for the sally. A dozen men were left stretched along the road behind them. On his cloak in the court-yard Shirzad Mir lay quiet, perspiration dotting his brow. Sir Ralph walked over to him gloomily.

“I foretold. . . the ill omen,” muttered the mir, looking up at him. “But for the cursed Rájput we might—have won through.”

Later came Abdul Dost to the Englishman with a long face.

“The hakims have bound the wound, and the mullahs are chanting prayers. Shirzad Mir is sore hurt. He bade me give over the leadership of the garrison to you.”

“Nay, Abdul Dost. Be you the leader.”

Sir Ralph walked beside him thoughtfully.

“God grant our friend recovers,” he added. “Bid him be of good cheer. I must go hence, as we planned.”

In answer to the other’s startled grunt Sir Ralph pointed to the mountain summits.

“The Uzbeks,” he explained, “will not look for a second attempt to leave the citadel this night. I shall strike out for the Mogul court. That is our remaining chance. Do you hold Khanjut—”

“Khanjut will not fall to the besiegers.”

The confidence of the mansabdar did not surprise Sir Ralph, who knew the belief of the hillmen. He clasped the other’s hand.

“See to it, Abdul Dost. I go by way of the watercourse and the hills.”

An hour later Sir Ralph descended into the well of Khanjut by torchlight. Diving under the rock arch of the cistern, he swam out into the water tunnel which led to the valley behind the citadel. He went alone.

Some time before sunup he climbed from the stream in the gorge whither his messenger had passed. In this way he began his

journey to the South, half across India, to the rendezvous with his countryman, Captain William Hawkins.

III

In England in the year 1600 sundry knights, aldermen and merchants under leadership of the Earl of Cumberland had been en-rolled and granted a royal charter in the East India Company.

This venture was planned to dispute Portuguese monopoly of trade from Aleppo east along the Malabar coast to the Moluccas. It was intended to win for England a share of the riches gleaned from the spice, silk and jewel trade with the Indies. It was hazardous, for the Portuguese had a dozen caravels at sea to one English sail; neither side scrupled to employ force.

When Sir Ralph left London it was agreed that a strong fleet under Captain Hawkins was to set out in 1607 for the west coast of India. This fleet was to despoil whatever Portuguese carracks fortune put in its way—thus repaying similar depredations of the doms—and enter the port of Surat before the Winter season.

Sir Ralph’s mission was to obtain from the Mogul the right to trade. Without this, Hawkins’ expedition could accomplish nothing.

It is easy to say, in retelling history, that the boldness of a project ensures its success. But both Weyand and Hawkins had been launched on their task ill prepared, in almost total ignorance of what they were to meet. The very boldness of the English reacted against them with the first Moguls.

Akbar and Jahangir were actually potentates of all the surrounding lands they cared to bring under their yoke; they drained into their treasuries the wealth of a golden continent. Outside nations, such as Ethiopia, Tibet and Khorassan, voluntarily sent envoys to tender their submission. Emissaries from Portugal were well received and granted firmans—trade concessions—because it flattered the vanity of the Moguls.

Under the circumstances it did not occur to the Moguls to respect the growing power of European nations outside their

known world—especially as the medieval Indian Empire neither desired nor understood sea power. Portuguese and English were curiosities at court; the former were tolerated because of their astute diplomacy and generous bribes among the satellites of the throne; the latter—of whom Weyand was the first to seek trade concessions—were regarded with indifference because of their apparent poverty and sturdy independence.

Bitter experience had taught Sir Ralph the difficulties con-fronting himself and Hawkins. It was all-important that he should meet the sea captain at Surat. The whole future of English trade with India depended upon this.

And Sir Ralph was but ill-equipped for his venture south. He had been marked as an accomplice of the outlaws of Afghanistan; his life would hang by a slim thread if he fell into the hands of the Portuguese, whose caravans passed from Surat up the Indus to Agra.

And he was setting out alone, with his only resource his sword and some gold and jewels that he had brought with him from Khanjut, floating the bag that contained them, with his long sword, tied to a log through the watercourse.

He had at that time no friends in the Mogul’s land except wounded Shirzad Mir in the beleaguered fortress of Khanjut— save perhaps Krishna Taya, the Rájput girl whose life he had saved. But she had returned to her own clan of Marwar in Rájputana, near the mouth of the Indus.

A man lacking Sir Ralph’s dogged determination would not have attempted the journey south—eight hundred miles from the northern mountains to the dry, heat-ridden plain of Hindustan. He had set his heart, however, on meeting with the English fleet and returning with Hawkins’s papers and presents to the Mogul’s court, then at Kabul.

He knew the way up the valley to the trail that led to the Shyr Pass. He pushed ahead steadily, the exertion warming his limbs, which had been chilled by the swim. He tied the bag of gold to his girdle and wiped his blade dry on a tuft of grass.

As his messenger had done, Sir Ralph caught sight of the Uzbek outpost in the ravine and circled it, cursing the watchfulness of Jani Beg. He made more noise than the slain hillman, but—as he had guessed—the sentries had heard of the unsuccessful sortie and were lax in their watch. Nor were the mounted patrols alert in the Shyr Pass.

Crossing a cleared space, Sir Ralph sighted a form prone in the lush grass. Dawn was revealing his surroundings, and he identified the figure by sight and smell as that of a dead man. The head, he saw, had been cut off.

Thus it was that the Englishman came unwittingly on the body of the Afghan who had failed to get his message through the Uzbek lines.

Noting the rusted helmet that lay beside the body, he paused thoughtfully, then stooped and undid the throat-lacings of the mail. He forced himself to the disagreeable task.

Doffing his own surcoat and boots, he drew the mail over his shirt with a shiver of disgust. The cotton wrappings from the legs of the dead man he twisted about his own limbs. Putting on the helmet, he found that it effectively hid under its loose curtain of steel links his own yellow curls.

The peak of the helmet came far down over his eyes. He bound his own girdle about the mail, attaching to it the bags and his sword.

At first glance he would now pass for an Uzbek in Kallmark armor. The skin of his face had been deeply tanned; his brown mustache was little lighter than those of the Uzbek Mongols.

His knowledge of Turki would serve him well, although he could not hope to deceive an Uzbek or a Turk. Only the light hue of his hands, his gray eyes and his European weapon would be likely to stir the curiosity of the casual passerby.

He rolled his well-worn clothes into a bundle which he thrust into a thicket. This done, he struck off through the pines on a course parallel to the Shyr Pass, knowing that he would meet before long with shepherds or wandering hill tribes.

As a matter of fact it was a settlement of nomad Hazaras that he first came upon. These Muslim tribesmen were encamped in a clearing overlooking the southern slope of the Koh-i-Baba. They were a ragged crew, preying on stragglers from caravans and the camp followers of the army before Khanjut.

The young warriors of the tribe were absent on a raid, so there were few but women and old men to guard the ponies grazing by the tents and the camels kneeling in the sun.

They looked up curiously as Sir Ralph approached—their curiosity tinged with well-founded fear that the newcomer might be bearer of punishment from the Uzbeks.

He knew better than to accept their volubly proffered hospitality, contenting himself with purchase of some uninviting-looking rice, dates and dried horseflesh. Then he announced that he would barter a mount.

A graybeard, torn between evil curiosity as to the strange appearance and speech of the newcomer and fear of the Uzbeks, answered.

“We be men of the desert, valiant Mongol,” he muttered righteously. “Our horses are our dearest possession; their flesh our food. Would you rob a long-suffering tribe on which Allah has laid the heavy hand of sorrow—”

“Nay, I will buy for gold—a camel.”

Sir Ralph was no horseman; he had decided that he would fare better between the humps of a long-haired camel, besides journeying more swiftly. The graybeard whined and bargained for a heavy price.

“Yield me the camel, fool,” growled Sir Ralph, “or I will summon the nearest Uzbek outpost—”

“Aie!” muttered the other. “That would bring a blight upon our women, and we should be all borne off as slaves to work at carrying earth for the siege. Nay—” a shrewd gleam came into his bleared eyes—“you be a strange Uzbek. And they do not ride south—”

“Perhaps I have taken gold from the ameers and ride to save my skin.” Sir Ralph tapped his sword hilt meaningfully. “Peace! And be content that you have gold and not a broken skull.”

Nevertheless, when he left the camp he felt that the suspicions of the Hazaras had been aroused. When he mounted his protesting beast and struck south through the rock ravine of the Koh-i-Baba, he was not sure that boys from the tribe did not follow him for the space of a day’s journey.

He found the camel uncomfortable but swift. Once they had descended the hills and gained the comparatively level valleys that ran past Kabul, the clumsy animal stretched into a long stride that ate up the miles.

This was to the liking of Sir Ralph, who was anxious to make all speed to the Indus. He allowed the camel to choose its path, so long as they kept to the South. He had only a hazy idea of that region, but knew that if he stuck to his present course he must come out on the river.

He avoided the larger villages, stopping only at shepherd ham-lets for food and resting for the night in thickets beside the caravan trails. Once or twice he sighted strings of camels and horses forming merchants’ caravans. These he skirted carefully, being content to meet only unwarlike people to whom the double argument of money and a weapon was sufficient to gain him food readily.

The cold of the hills diminished under the strong sun of the plains, and Sir Ralph knew that he must be near the Indus. Questions put to passersby assured him that this was the fact.

So far fortune smiled upon him. He was skirting the Mogul kingdom where few soldiers were to be met with. And his course was across rather than along the main caravan routes from Herat or Kandahar.

At the Indus he was equally fortunate. He came out upon a village whence native fishermen journeyed south in their small craft. Here he sold his camel and bargained with the natives for a place in one of their boats.

A week after his departure from Khanjut he was seated in the stern of a barge headed down the broad current of the Indus. To the best of his knowledge his course to the river had not been observed by his enemies. But he had not reckoned with the speed with which rumors spread in the congested plains of Hindustan, nor with the curiosity which his advent had aroused.

All seemed well. There were only two men in the boat, miser-able and half-naked fishermen who barely understood his Turki. He had made them build him a shelter of bamboo in the stern, for the double purpose of shielding him from observation and protecting him from the unpleasant intrusion of the sun.

But he had not stilled the tongues that were wagging behind him; nor had he guessed that his person was sought by others than the Uzbeks.

It was a relief to change from the camel to the boat. The dirty mat sail propelled them downstream at fair speed. The mud villages along the banks became more frequent, as did the sight of boys watering buffalo.

Sir Ralph’s character was shaped for action. The idleness irked him. Time was passing, and he knew that the citadel of Khanjut could not hold out much longer.

Many things worried him. The time was drawing near when he would have to leave the boat and strike south, where the Indus swept to the West. Here travel would be more difficult.

He reasoned that he would then need to traverse the Rájput province of Marwar not far from Chitore. It would be hard to avoid questions; likewise, few Hindus would understand Turki.

He wondered if his messenger had reached Hawkins. How had the English fleet fared at the hands of the Portuguese? He longed for sight of an English face and the grip of a countryman’s hand.

He became restive and uncomfortable in the heat. Long since he had been forced to discard the helmet with its shielding curtain, and the sight of his yellow hair had clearly startled the worthy boatmen. They talked together frequently.

Sir Ralph, ill-tempered from gnawing anxiety and confinement, kept careful watch on them. He prevented them from talking with those on shore. Plainly they had come to fear his presence on the boat.

“This will be a thing of evil omen for us, master,” muttered one. “The gods will not smile on us if we serve one of strange oaths who does not bend his head at the waterside shrines.”

“Evil omens will bear fruit if you complain or turn back, dolt!” snarled the Englishman. “Pray to the gods if you like, but keep to your oars.”

The two fell silent. But that day a party of horsemen watered their mounts at the bank while the fishing craft was passing. Sir Ralph recognized them as Rájputs of the warrior caste.

A rider challenged the men in the boat sharply. One of the fishermen replied. Whereupon the Rájputs wheeled their mounts up the bank and disappeared into the jungle.

“What said the horseman?” demanded Sir Ralph.

“He bade us beware of polluting the water where the horses of nobles drank, master,” evasively responded the man who had spoken.

The Englishman guessed that he lied.

“Where be we now?” he asked shortly.

“I know not.”

“O one of small wit, answer not thus when I speak. What kingdom lies along this bank?”

His tone was ominous, and the man cringed.

“Jesselmir, lord. The great city of Chitore lies not a week’s ride beyond.”

“See to it that I am not molested. If harm comes to me both your carcasses will descend into the maw of Father Indus to be food for the fish you catch.”

The men bent over their oars in sullen silence. That night a crescent moon tinged the riverbank with an eerie light.

The Englishman, suspecting treachery, kept awake. He re-solved to leave the boat after the next night. Any course of

action was better than lying helpless in the boat at the mercy of the fishermen.

The next night the moon was fuller. He could see the cypress jungle that lined the river and listen to the cries that floated over the water from the villages. The odor of dried mud, decaying fish and human dirt was overpowering.

Under influence of the heat Sir Ralph slumbered. He woke abruptly, feeling that something unfamiliar had changed the motion of the boat.

His two rogues told him that they were stuck upon a mud bank. Overhead was the tangle of trees, through which glimmered the moon.

Then came the swift splash of feet in the water. Sir Ralph struggled to his knees, cramped by his sleep, and felt for his sword. It was gone.

With a crash the bamboo shelter tumbled in on him under the weight of a heavy body. Dark figures sprang into the boat. He struck out, cursing and pushing erect through the wreckage. Wiry arms seized him, dragged him down. He was pinned to the bottom of the craft, among the odorous fish.

He felt his arms drawn behind his back and bound. Then the arms released their grasp. He was pulled to his feet and pushed from the boat to the shore.

Horses were tethered under the cypresses. These his captors mounted, assisting him to do likewise. Bound as he was and unskilled in horsemanship, it was no easy matter to clamber into the high-peaked saddle.

A glance back at the river, illumined by the faint moonlight, showed him that the boat had pushed off and was heading away from shore with all speed. He reflected grimly that the two rogues had probably known of the ambush.

“My sword?” he demanded in Turki.

One of the warriors exhibited the weapon. Sir Ralph reasoned that one of the fishermen had removed the blade while he slept and given it to his captors.

Further speech was checked by the man who held his sword. This individual signed for the riders to move into the jungle.

They struck into a trail through the brush at a brisk trot that jarred the Englishman to the teeth. The trees closed in upon them. Hot scent of the jungle mesh struck his nostrils.

From either side came the subdued cries of bush life. Some-where far off the deep diapason of a lion rumbled. The heat brought sweat to his forehead. In the half light he could not make out the features of his escort, but they presently came to a clearing where a half dozen torch-bearers were waiting.

The horsemen did not slacken their pace. The native linkmen trotted beside them, their torches serving the double purpose of lighting the way and guarding against possible assault from beasts of the bush.

The light showed Sir Ralph what he had suspected—that his captors were Rájputs of the military caste. He turned awkwardly in the saddle and addressed the one who understood Turki, the rider that held his sword and seemed to be the leader of the group.

“What master do you serve?”

The man’s lip curled scornfully.

“Since when have the men of the raj owned a master? Nay, for three times ten times a life my fathers have been free warriors.” “By whose order do you seize me?”

“By the word of one whose speech is law in Marwar.”

Sir Ralph reflected that they were probably in the Marwar land, near Oudh. He knew nothing of the rajas. Krishna Taya had said that the Rana of Oudh was with the Mogul’s army newly returned from the Dekkan. He wondered fleetingly if the Rájput girl had known of his capture.

“The order is that of Raja Man Singh,” said his informant complacently.

More than this the man would not say. The Englishman fell into moody silence.

Weariness settled upon him heavily. His long journey had taken toll of his strength.

Little comfort was to be extracted from his present situation as prisoner of the Marwar general. With a shrug he let the matter slip from his mind, accepting his bad fortune with what philosophy he could muster.

The trail widened again into a glade, and water glinted ahead. The link men turned aside to go around a pool. This Sir Ralph noted vaguely. It seemed built in a rough garden. The scent of jasmine hung in the hot air. Torches ahead revealed a pavilion facing the tank.

Here the horsemen halted and dismounted. They lifted him down and led him stumbling forward. He was very weak from lack of food and from the nauseous sickness bred of the days on the boat. Through the opening in the latticework of the pavilion he went and looked up wearily.

Candles lighted the interior of the tent, which was hung with flimsy silks, redolent of sandalwood. On the carpet in front of him a woman was seated. She sat very straight, a slim figure with white robe thrown back over one shapely shoulder, and black hair bare of ornament. Lustrous eyes looked up at him from a grave, childlike face.

“Krishna Taya!” he exclaimed.

She did not answer. Her glance held his steadily, while his dulled wits groped for the meaning of her presence here. The men left the tent to attend to their horses, with the exception of the leader, who stood at his side impassively.

“Krishna Taya!”

Relief crept into his voice, mingled with bewilderment. “So I am your prisoner?”

“Nay.”

The girl spoke quietly.

“You are prisoner to Raja Man Singh, whom I serve.” “Wherefore?”

“You drew sword against the Mogul.”

Her eyes wavered and sought her hands, which played with silk bracelets.

“Did you think you could march through half the Mogul’s land unseen, Sir Ralph?” She laughed softly, even sadly. “That might not be. A tribe of Hazaras reported your escape, and a search was ordered by the raja. They found the body you had despoiled of its mail and also your garments. Villagers at the Indus had seen you bartering with the fisherman.

“The boat was recognized several day ago,” she added in ex-planation. “The raja’s order had been brought hither by riders. My men are his followers. They have brought you to me as I bade them.”

Sir Ralph smiled grimly, thinking of the false security he had felt on the journey down the Indus. Krishna Taya had changed. She was no longer the hand maiden of the Uzbek chief. She had slain the man who had taken her from the Marwar clan of the Rájputs, and the act had restored her to the protection of Raja Man Singh.

It was not strange that the Rájput had availed himself of the services of the girl after she had been restored to caste in her own land. Krishna Taya knew much of the secrets of the Uzbek camp and of the citadel of Khanjut.

The Englishman had once guarded her life at risk of his own. And Krishna Taya had looked long on the Ferang and kissed him farewell.

Yet he knew the implacable pride of the Rájputs and their devotion to the Mogul. Now that Krishna Taya served another master he would ask no leniency from her.

He confronted the girl calmly, standing erect with difficulty against the weakness that gripped him.

“What does the raja plan to do with me?” he asked bluntly. “When the time comes you shall know.”

“Am I to be held a prisoner here?”

“Nay. Those who command in the raj have planned other-wise.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Whither were you going?” Krishna Taya glanced up with quick curiosity.

“Why should I tell?”

A flash of annoyance passed over the girl’s delicate face. “It were best to answer, Sir Ralph. Here you are not among friends. I must know.”

“Know then that I journeyed to Surat.”

“To the Portuguese?”

“Where else?”

He smiled at the unbelief mirrored in her dark eyes.

“Then you fled from Khanjut to seek safety on the Portuguese ships?”

“Aye, I fled.”

“Fool!” An angry flush mounted in her smooth cheeks. “Do you seek to deceive the servants of the raj? Your life hangs on the word of Raja Man Singh. Oh, you are a dullard of the sea, mingling in matters which concern you not. You fashion a lie clumsily—”

She broke off, eyeing his gaunt face with sudden understanding. The man at his side spoke to her in their native Urdu. Her glance softened.

“Udai Singh says that you lacked food and are beset by a fever. He will take you to his tent, where you must rest this night and the next day. Come then to my pavilion.

“But you must say what is true. I cannot send an answer of lies to Raja Man Singh, and there are certain things he must know.”

Sir Ralph suffered himself to be led away. Udai Singh loosened his bonds and drew off the tormenting mail shirt. At his bidding the Englishman went to the far corner of the tank.

Here he was stripped and bathed by the attendants. This done, they gave him clean muslin garments and conducted him to the Rájput’s tent, where he fell at once into a broken sleep.

Udai Singh had spoken the truth when he asserted that Sir Ralph was ill. Bad food and the change from the pure air of the hills had inflicted upon him a mild dysentery coupled with fever.

Throughout the next day he lay in the tent. Udai Singh brought him certain doctored drinks which smelled of herbs and the belleaf.

Once he thought that Krishna Taya came and looked in on him. A slave was sent who stirred the air over him with a peacock fan. From the fan came the faint scent of attar of rose—a favorite perfume of Krishna Taya.

This care and the Englishman’s willpower staved off a more serious illness. By the evening of the second day he was able to go to the pavilion.

It was twilight. He reflected that at this time Abdul Dost would be performing his evening ablutions before the sunset prayer and Shirzad Mir would be calling loudly for scented wine.

How had Shirzad Mir fared? What was the situation in Khan-jut? What did Raja Man Singh seek to learn from him?

He did not know. Nor did he hope greatly that he could win free to Surat.

He groaned at the thought of Hawkins waiting for his arrival. His delay might work hardship for the sturdy English captain at the hands of the Portuguese.

He stifled his impatience as best he could, determined to gain his freedom, if it were possible, by his wits. In this frame of mind he joined Krishna Taya at the edge of the tank, where she was seated on some cushions, attended only by slaves. The Rájputs, however, were not far away.

“Vishnu and Siva have harkened to my prayers,” the girl greeted him, “for Udai Singh says you are nearly free of the fever, al-though weak.”

“Udai Singh has been kind.”

Her glance swept over him inquiringly. She rested her chin on her small hands and gazed out over the water under dark lashes.

“It is the way of the Rájputs to care for a stricken enemy,” she said softly. “That is the law of those who dwell ever in the shadow of Yama.”

“So you are my enemy?” he responded bluntly. “There was a time when you sought to serve me—”

“And you freed me. The ways of the gods are hidden. Who am I but a servant of my clan and its leader, Raja Man Singh? From birth to death we women of Marwar must be ready to take the hand of Yama and pass to the fellowship of the bhanuloka, who are the spirits of the dead.”

She sighed, and sighing fell to stroking the silk bracelets. When she looked up she was smiling.

“Ho, Sir Ralph, do you remember the thick-skulled Muslim Abdul Dost and his foolhardy master? They feared that I might do them a mischief. Nay, I am but a poor girl.

“How fare the men of Khanjut? Are they ready to place the sword of submission on a cord about their necks and yield to the Mogul?”

The Englishman looked away obstinately.

“Abdul Dost and Shirzad Mir once allowed you to leave the walls of this same Khanjut,” he remarked grimly, “and by so doing earned the hatred of Jani Beg. Have you forgotten that?”

“Perhaps. There is a rumor Shirzad Mir is dying. The siege works of the great Persian, Shah Abbas, have reached close to the walls. His cannon have near completed a breach. Prisoners say that food is short in the garrison, although Raja Man Singh doubts.”

“That I know not.”

“Doubtless Abdul Dost, who is a warrior of sense, advises surrender?”

“Doubtless.”

Sir Ralph was little inclined to tell her what she sought to know.

“Or you would not have left Khanjut.”

He remained silent, and she sighed. Her hand touched his arm.

“Will you not trust me, Sir Ralph?” she whispered softly. “Those who are traitors to the Mogul may not live. You are like one who is walking blindly among snares.

“I have not forgotten that you saved my life. And I would do you a service. You seek a firman from Jahangir for your country-men. That you have often told me. See—”

She loosened one of the fragile silk bands from her arm and placed it in his hand. It was a childlike ornament, fringed with red tassels. He looked down at the smiling girl inquiringly. She clapped her hands and called to the Rájputs.

“Raja Man Singh ordered that you should be brought to the Mogul court,” she whispered swiftly, while Udai Singh and the others approached. “Pledge me that you will come to the court.”

He reflected that this was what he planned to do.

“Quickly,” she warned. “I know you seek Surat, to gain word of your countrymen. You shall yet do this, but—promise. You are a man of your word.”

“I shall go to the court of Jahangir,” he assented.

Udai Singh was near enough to hear.

“Now, speak freely,” she cautioned under her breath.

“Witness this, Udai Singh—” she turned to the leader of her men-at-arms—“witness and tell others what you have seen. I have given the silk bracelet to Sir Ralph the Englishman, and he has taken it.”

The eyes of the Rájput widened in genuine surprise. Sir Ralph looked at the silk-and-tinsel ornament curiously. It seemed a slight thing to have such an effect on Krishna Taya’s warriors.

“Witness, Udai Singh, that he is now my ram rukhi—bracelet brother. He is bound to my service, for he has taken the token in his hand. In whatever I do, he will aid me. That is the custom of our clan and people, from the time the first queen of Chitore sent the ram rukhi to Privthi Raj—”

Sir Ralph had heard Shirzad Mir speak of this ceremonial of chivalry by which women of the raj obtained the aid of powerful chieftains when in need. The token he knew was never refused. It was considered more binding than a pledge, by the giver as well as the one to whom it was sent.

Udai Singh, however, was far from pleased. His dark face was harsh, and he gnawed at his mustache.

“This is not fitting, Krishna Taya,” he said boldly, and the others murmured assent. “Who should aid you except us? This Ferang was to be bound and brought prisoner to Raja Man Singh—

”

“Fool!” cried the girl musically. “Because you wield a sword well do you question in wisdom? Am I not vested in the authority of the raja himself? Does not the law of our people permit the ram rukhi to be sent to any one, slave or king?”

Udai Singh was silent but plainly ill pleased.

“And now, Sir Ralph,” went on Krishna Taya, “what do you seek in Surat? It is not the Portuguese.”

Quickly he pondered what he should answer and decided it was best to be frank. For some reason best known to her the woman seemed anxious to be his friend. Likewise, he was by nature a blunt man who had no love for lies.

He explained the visit of Captain Hawkins, the plan of the English to occupy Surat in spite of the Portuguese and to win the friendship of the Mogul by bold measures.

“The sea captain is an ameer in my land,” he said. “He brings gifts and friendship to Jahangir. But his success depends upon me. It was agreed that I should meet him.”

“Are you also an ameer of the sea, whence you came?” Sir Ralph nodded assent.

Krishna Taya was silent for a long space, whether pleased or not he could not tell. Idly she tossed tiny crumbs of cake from her lap into the pool, where a flurry of silvery fish fought for the dainties.

“You shall go to Surat,” she decided, “with Udai Singh and his following of six. Nay, you were witless to venture alone. Does a man hunt tigers afoot and without nets?

“Guide the English emissaries direct from Surat to Kabul,” she commanded Udai Singh. “To the court of Jahangir himself This

you may do, but not otherwise,” she added, turning to Sir Ralph. “Udai Singh will see to it.

She glanced up meaningfully at the sulking Rájput. “I give you this as a duty, Udai Singh.”

She smiled mockingly at Sir Ralph, whose heart had leaped in pleasure.

“Do not think to escape from my men, Ferang, or to turn back from Kabul. You are a prisoner, under pledge. If the pledge is broken you will suffer. Nay, if you are wise you will trust us—for the Uzbeks and Persians will not be so gentle with you. Do not hurry; time is not lacking—”

“Not so, Krishna Taya,” he said, disarmed by her artlessness. “I must be at Kabul before the citadel falls. The embassy will intercede with Jahangir for the lives of those at Khanjut—”

He broke off, cursing his plain-speaking tongue.

“O wise Ferang,” she laughed. “Is not the citadel stocked with food to last for months? Surely you do not fear it will be taken?”

Caught off his guard by her nimble tongue, Sir Ralph could think of no plausible answer.

“Harken, Udai Singh,” she chattered gaily, “how the dull Ferang tells me what I wish. Now I know that the granaries of Khanjut are near empty. I know that he has left Khanjut seeking aid for those within, who must be hard pressed. Nay, more he hopes to intercede with Jahangir through the English embassy for his friends.

“I must hasten to Raja Man Singh with these tidings. There is much to be done at Kabul—”

She rose lightly to her feet and fled into her pavilion, still laughing gaily. Once within the hangings, however, a change came over her. The mirth faded from her dark eyes and her slight lips trembled.

She flung herself on the cushions, staring through the sandal-wood lattice at the group of men. The pulse in her smooth throat beat swiftly. Long she watched without moving.

When the men had made their preparations and mounted for the journey, her eyes followed them out of sight among the cypresses. Then she lay back upon the pillows, sighing.

Her attendants came to light the tapers, but she sent them away impatiently. Twilight merged into darkness. A faint glitter of moonlight showed on the surface of the pool. Still Krishna Taya did not stir.

The moon was high over the jungle mesh before she slept.

On the trail to the South Sir Ralph rode silently, angry with himself and the girl. Only once did he speak to Udai Singh.

“So the pretty play of the ram rukhi was a mockery,” he observed scornfully, “and Krishna Taya played upon me as upon the strings of her guitar?”

The Rájput reined in his horse sharply.

“Those words were ill spoken, Ferang,” he stormed. “By Siva and Kali the many-armed, you shall answer for them. Never is the ram rukhi given in false faith. My scimitar will cross with your long sword the day I have brought you safely to the court at Kabul.”

“I have no sword.”

Impatiently the other loosened Sir Ralph’s blade from his own girdle and thrust it into the hand of the Englishman.

“Take this, then, and be content. Remember, you fight with Udai Singh the day we reach Kabul. One of us shall slay the other for the words that passed this night.”

“So be it,” said Sir Ralph shortly.

He had seriously offended the sensitive pride of the Rájput, but he was not the man to soften his own words, nor—in his present mood—did he greatly care whom he fought.

Yet the thing puzzled him. Apparently Krishna Taya had cleverly deceived him, while Udai Singh hotly maintained this was not the case.

There had been a wistful note in the girl’s voice when she asked him to trust her. Yet she seemed heart and soul with his enemies.

However, she had paved the way for bringing the English embassy to Kabul. This meant much to Sir Ralph. He cared not how many quarrels he took upon his shoulders, if he could present Hawkins to the Mogul. As for Krishna Taya—

He was mystified by the girl. But he was not the only one in India who was curious as to the true character of the Rájput woman.

Like the breath of wind in the trees, Krishna Taya came and went from camp to camp, laughing at the men who sought to call her to account, and following her own whim. If she played a part, it was well played. If she served a master, no one could name him.

It was with relief and high expectation that Sir Ralph climbed the hills back of Surat after a short hard ride from the Indus bank. To add to the discomfort that horseback entailed for him, rains had been constant. The companionship of the Rájputs, who resented their errand and were afire to ride back to Kabul, was hardly cheering.

At Surat, he consoled himself, he would find the adventurous Hawkins and clap eyes again upon good English faces, bearded and weather-stained. He would feel the deck of an aftercastle under his feet and hear the pennon of the king snap in the shrouds overhead; he would have news of London and the court for the first time in close to four years; perhaps even receive a budget of letters.

So it was with a light heart that he urged his horse to the summit of the rise overlooking the city. The rain had ceased for a space and the sun beat fairly upon them. They had left the green wilderness of bush behind and were out upon the high road again.

At the top of the rise Sir Ralph drew in his horse, drinking in the sight before him. There were the flat roofs and the temples of Surat. At one side of the city were the storehouse and other structures of the Portuguese trading station. Out in the harbor four ships were anchored.

Sir Ralph’s gaze riveted upon these. He scanned the high, loop-holed fore- and aftercastles, the muzzles of cannon that peered forth amidships and the long pennant stirred by a faint breeze.

He had keen eyes and was familiar with the lines and rigging of ships of several nations. He even distinguished the coat of arms painted on the stern of one caravel.

He could not tear his gaze from the ships. These were what he had come across half the Mogul Empire to see. He remained sunk in a muse so long that the Rájput stared at him curiously.

The four ships were Portuguese.

IV

So long as the hills endure, a Rájput will keep his word.

Illness leaves its mark on a man’s spirits, as it saps his strength. Sir Ralph had passed through an attack of dysentery coming on the heels of his long journey. His vitality had been drained more than he was aware while he was buoyed up by the prospect of meeting with Hawkins.

Now he knew that the English fleet had not appeared at Surat. Udai Singh made inquiries in the town and reported that the Portuguese had no knowledge of Hawkins, or of any vessels except their own along the west coast of India.

Sir Ralph had calculated that Hawkins would have arrived a month or two before. It was not likely that he would come during the Winter season.

Instead—so Udai Singh learned—a Portuguese fleet bearing envoys with letters and gifts to Jahangir had put into Surat some two weeks ago. There had been rejoicing at the trade station at this, and the newcomers were being dined nightly pending their departure into the interior.

It was the irony of fate, thought the Englishman, that an enemy squadron had put in an appearance on a mission like that of Hawkins. The arrival of the Portuguese—the first envoys from Europe to greet the new Mogul, Jahangir—would strengthen

the hold of the Lisbon adventurers on India and would nullify Hawkins’s mission when the latter arrived.

“We will wait,” he told Udai Singh. “My companion may be delayed by storms.”

“It was the word of Krishna Taya to return straightaway to Kabul,” retorted the plain-spoken Rájput, who entertained no expectation of seeing an English fleet appear out of the sea.

They occupied a deserted caravansary on the slope overlooking the seaport. Sir Ralph deemed it best to keep out of sight of the Portuguese, and sent the Rájputs to the city bazaars for food. As he still wore a Rájput turban and the native garments he had donned perforce at Krishna Taya’s pavilion, the peasants who sometimes came in sight of the caravansary did not suspect the presence there of a Ferang.

His companions, out of humor from their fruitless trip, re-turned from the bazaars with tales of the Portuguese, their super-natural power of sailing the seas to India, their lavish promises, the influence of their padres at Agra, and the glories of great Goa.

In all India, they reminded Sir Ralph skeptically, there was not another Englishman. The promised ameer of the sea had not appeared. They believed their own eyes, which told them that the Portuguese ships, not the English, were bringing gifts to the Mogul.

“Moreover,” they said, “the low-born Portuguese at the trade mart have a tale that the king is not fit to wipe the dirt from their own boot soles. Verily, they are a race without caste. Are not all Ferangs merchants? If so, there are none of the warrior caste in all Ferangistan.”

“Wait for a space,” counseled Sir Ralph, keeping his temper, “and if the ameer of the sea comes you will behold a warrior among many.”

“But you have said that you also are an ameer of the sea. Yet you have neither the garments nor following of a noble. How may we then believe?”

“What your eyes behold, you may believe.”

“We see no ameer of the sea. Naught but a prisoner, poor as a Gulf Arab, and friendless save for—”

He broke off moodily.

In this manner they grumbled. Idleness was irksome to the hard-fighting, opium-eating Rájputs, who scented activity at Kabul and were loath to remain. Sir Ralph spent most of his time on the hill overlooking the town, where he could watch the coming and going of the men from the ships.

The sailors were conveying the cargoes ashore—bales of broad-cloth, as nearly as he could judge. Each night a banquet was held at the trading-station. The Portuguese factor was in no hurry to see his distinguished guests depart. Tales were circulated from the storehouse of the splendid gifts brought for the Mogul.

It was not a pleasant watch that Sir Ralph kept. He searched the horizon against his better judgment for sight of an English sail, and thereby fretted himself the more.

“God’s love!” he cried to himself. “Shall I go here hence empty-handed, to become a pawn on the Mogul’s chessboard?”

He brooded on this thought, oppressed by the heat and his own ill health. The sight of the hybrid sailors who held revelry in the town of nights wore on his frayed temper, as did the prospect of the stout pursers and trade clerks who were carried about in pomp in native sedan chairs.

He heard no more from Krishna Taya; Khanjut was as if it never had been; he could hope for no word from England.

Then one day he returned to the caravansary from his lookout with a new light in his eyes.

Udai Singh was polishing his weapons; two others slept under their thatched shelter; no one looked up.

“Tomorrow,” he said to Udai Singh, “we will turn our horses’ heads to Kabul.”

“It is time,” yawned the Rájput.

“After nightfall I will pay a visit to the town.”

Udai Singh scowled.

“Nay, the Portuguese will lay hands on you.”

“Not so.”

A new alertness in his gruff voice made the Rájput look up from the sword on his lap.

“Think not, Ferang,” he responded grimly, “I would risk losing you. There are many of the fat merchants in Surat who would be glad to have you in their grasp. And I have whetted my temper for our meeting at swords’ points in Kabul.”

“I will not fail you. But, look you, Rájput, I will be in Surat this night and furthermore upon the deck of yonder ship.” The others stared.

“The heat has bewitched your brain,” muttered Udai Singh. “Krishna Taya,” smiled the Englishman “bade you go wherever I went. You also will come to the ship.”

“I will have you bound and set upon your horse’s back.”

“Nay; was it not the order of Krishna Taya that I should be free of bonds? If you seek to do such thing, Udai Singh, we shall have our bout here and now and one or the other of us will remain at Surat.”

The Rájput hesitated, plainly at a loss. Seeing this, Sir Ralph drew Krishna Taya’s bracelet from his girdle.

“Have you forgotten this, Udai Singh?” he demanded. “Will you keep the pledge made by a woman of your clan?” “By Siva and Vishnu—aye!”

“Then you will do this one thing that I ask. You will go to the bazaars before sundown and buy extra horses. I will give you gold. And bring back with you two of the Portuguese traders.”

“Nay; how may that be done?”

Sir Ralph pointed significantly to the other’s sword. By now the remaining Rájputs had become interested and clustered around the two.

“I have no quarrel with the traders of Goa,” observed Udai Singh after some thought, “although I love them not. The Mogul might be angered.”

“Have you a fear? Nay, I shall take the blame. Ho, men of the Marwar clan, do you draw back when swords are pulled from

sheath and there is a fight afoot? Then you are not like to Raja Man Singh’s men.”

“Nay, we be also from Marwar!”

“Then you will come with me this night.”

Sir Ralph laughed at the mingled feelings expressed in Udai Singh’s dark countenance. The Rájput was doubtful of the new venture, yet secretly pleased with the prospect of action and unwilling to be thought lacking in courage.

For a long time Sir Ralph talked with them, outlining what had come into his mind when he was watching on the hill. His bearded face was aglow with eagerness. The force of his conviction won a grudging assent from the Rájputs.

“The heat has eaten under his skull,” they said one to the other, “but we must go with him or he will never return. Like-wise, it will be excellent sport.”

When the Mohammedan traders of Surat were at evening prayers and the bazaars were closing for the day, two things came to pass.

One was the seizure of a Portuguese chirurgeon on his way to the house of his Excellency, the Portuguese governor of Surat. The chirurgeon was a stout man who loved his comfort and enjoyed the rest after the long voyage from Europe. For this reason he was traveling from the waterside to the governor’s residence in a palanquin borne by native coolies.

This worthy individual was passing through the bazaar quarter meditating upon the rival merits of stuffed fowl and seasoned fish washed down with spiced wine when he received a startling jolt. The bearers let the palanquin fall to earth.

Several mounted men had spurred up. A cloak was promptly dropped over the head of the worthy doctor. He heard harsh commands issued to the coolies, who took up the staffs of the palanquin again and set off at a frightened trot in a new direction.

Suspecting something decidedly amiss, the chirurgeon emitted a series of bellows, reinforced by the jolting of his vehicle. Whereupon the front of the cloak was lifted and the naked blade

of a sword caressed his beard. At this pantomime the Portuguese fell silent save for a string of muttered blasphemies.

When he tried to lift the cloak to peep out from under it, he received a blow on the head which made his ears sing. By its nature he judged it to be delivered by the flat of a sword.

“Santa Maria!” he muttered, and changed from oaths to prayers, occasionally mingling the two.

In time the jarring ceased. The cloak was snatched off, and he beheld his four bearers panting like dogs upon the ground. The horsemen conducted him by methods not soothing to his dignity to a walled space in which a tawny-bearded, gaunt white man in native garments confronted him.

“Santa Maria!” he said again.

Whereupon the man fell to questioning him fiercely in very broken Portuguese and the worthy chirurgeon received another shock. The man was English.

The questions were about the town of Surat, the habits of the Portuguese, the goods left on the vessels, the envoys and the guard that remained on the ships at night. The captive was allowed no time to adjust either his rumpled finery—he was a lover of good dress—or his wits.

When he had answered to the satisfaction of the Englishman, he was again seized, bound, gagged and laid none too gently under a thatch shelter. Whereupon the men left him.

The second event of importance—and this excited more alarm in Surat—was the fire that started shortly after nightfall in the bazaar quarter near the storehouse of the Portuguese.

Building materials were scarce in Surat, so the structures were of cane, straw and dried mud, all of which burned readily on a night like the present, when there was a brisk wind and no rain.

So aroused was his Excellency and his servants and guests that the dinner was abandoned at its midway point—to the irretrievable damage of certain well-cooked dishes. The small force of soldiery were mustered out to move the trade goods from the menaced storehouses. Even the sailors in the town were sum-

moned, with the two left as a guard for the great boat that had brought the envoys ashore.

These last two could not be found and were deemed probably drunk. The fire raged strongly in the thatch huts and required the attention of all able hands until near midnight, when other matters engaged their attention.

The Portuguese wronged the two sailors, who had been only slumbering by the boat at the waterfront. Their dreams were disturbed by certain white-robed assailants who stunned them without compunction and had them conveyed to a nearby fisherman’s hut. When they were discovered the next day they united in saying that devils had descended from the heavens and darted brimstone upon their heads.

Sir Ralph and his Rájputs were not devils, but they worked fiercely and without regard to the feelings of those they encountered. Once the venture was afoot the men of Udai Singh carried it on with a will. Hereditary dislike of the merchant class rendered their task agreeable.

Sir Ralph took the short oars of the great-boat, for his companions were no sailors. The harbor was dark, except for the lanterns high on the sterns of the moored vessels. From the deck of the craft that the chirurgeon had pointed out as the flagship came the sound of a chantey that bore evidence of a wine-butt opened in the absence of the officials.

The five Rájputs—two had been left ashore for pertinent reasons—eyed the looming vessel with curiosity. They had never seen a ship of the Ferangs before.

When the great-boat rocked on the slight swell, they gripped its sides uncomfortably. They had little liking for their present position, but as Sir Ralph was smilingly confident they were unwilling to show anxiety.

On the poop of the vessel a petty officer—the purser—leaned on the carved railing and cursed the ill luck that had left him in charge of the ship and its valuable cargo for the night. In the

waist, a half-dozen of the hybrid crew discussed the merits of their wine by lantern light.

Below decks a swabber slept heavily beside a huddled group of African slaves destined as a present for the Mogul.

The purser ceased his maledictions to stare at a suspicious glow that had appeared in the town near the storehouse. A muffled tumult came to his ears. So it happened that he did not see a skiff drift toward the ship in the darkness under gentle impulse of a pair of oars skillfully wielded.

The tumult in the bazaar quarter grew to a clamor and he could see native figures outlined against the red glow of flames. A slight scraping overside on the quarter away from shore did not stir his interest.

Some of the men had risen to look at the fire. Then a man by the wine-butt looked up and swore aloud.

“Por Dios!”

Several white figures had climbed over the rail by the shrouds and dropped to the deck.

Those who sat at wine started up with oaths in mingled tongues. They felt for their cutlasses. No natives were allowed aboard the vessels, and these had appeared with an eerie quiet.

The purser turned at the clash of steel in the waist. He was in time to see two men tumbled to deck with bleeding scalps and others run to the tiny door of the forecastle.

It had taken the bewildered and befuddled crew a scant moment to find that the newcomers were not thieving river pi-rates but expert swordsmen who thoroughly relished a clash of weapons.

The worthy purser snatched a pistol from his belt, only to have it struck up by a long sword in the hand of a tall man who sprang up the after ladder with the skill of long practice.

“Let fall the weapons,” hissed a voice in hearty English. “Kneel upon the deck. Kneel, dog!”

Menaced by a steady sword point, the purser had no choice but to obey. The newcomer took up the pistol and deftly wound a turn

of rope about the prisoner’s wrists, pinioning his arms behind his back. His legs received like treatment, secured by knots caught sailor fashion.

Then the temporary master of the Portuguese flagship was laid on his fat belly on the deck.

“Struggle or shout, my friend,” advised the Englishman, “and yonder murderous natives will grant ye short shrift.”

Whereupon the purser heard his assailant run to the waist. He lay where he had been placed, listening with distended ears to occasional groans from the crew.

Once the men were safely secured by his own hand, Sir Ralph went to the ladder leading down to the gun deck. Here he could make out a black mass, which he identified as the slaves, and their sleeping guardian. Stationing one of the Rájputs at this point, he inspected the door of the aftercastle.

It was locked, but an ax commandeered from the forecastle, whence the fugitives had been routed, soon splintered the oak panels. Sir Ralph led his party within. He glanced curiously at the carved beams overhead and the Flemish tapestries.

These he tore down and adjusted over the square ports as a precaution against discovery from the shore.

In the cabin of the Portuguese officials stood several stout chests. It took some time to force the lids with the ax. Once this was accomplished a variety of articles was disclosed—good broadcloth garments, velvets, elegant ruffles, plumed hats.

Here also were the gifts destined for the Mogul—firearms, clocks from Brandenburg, inlaid comfit-boxes of gold, silver statues of the saints, a volume of illuminations, among other things.

Sir Ralph sought and found the papers of the embassy. He knew enough Portuguese to make certain they were what he wanted. There was no mistaking the ornate seal of Portugal.

The Rájputs would fain have examined the treasure at leisure, being curious, but the Englishman set them to work carrying the spoil to the waist of the ship.

Cautioning Udai Singh to watch the prisoners, he descended to the great-boat and stowed away the objects his companions passed down. Then he took up the oars and with a single Rájput in the skiff struck out for the dark shore.

He landed at a spot outside the limits of the town and left the warrior to guard his plunder. By the time he regained the ship the tumult on shore was at its height and small boats were passing to Surat from the other vessels of the fleet anchored some distance away.

Sir Ralph worked swiftly, for he knew there was danger of a boat from the other ships coming to his prize. Once he heard a hail in the darkness and rested on his oars. But the cry was not repeated, and he safely rejoined Udai Singh.

The Rájputs had assembled the remainder of the spoil on deck. Not content with this, however, Sir Ralph stripped the cabin of an oil painting of Philip the Second, of sundry brass candlesticks and gilt pikes.

“These we will need Udai Singh,” he observed thoughtfully. “Nay, we must have more.”

His glance ran along the deck, which was dark except for a solitary lantern.

“Eh—we will take a cannon; nay, a brace of cannon.” Udai Singh grunted.

“What if we are seen by the Ferangs in the other sea-castles?” “The rail protects us from observation,” Sir Ralph made answer readily. “Come, I will need your help.”

He collected various loose ropes and attached them to two brass demi-culverins—light pieces with the coat of arms of Portugal carved on their breeches. Under his directions the Rájputs lowered the two cannon overside into the boat.

The skiff was now dangerously loaded. But Sir Ralph had seen a cock-boat perched on the poop. This he lowered into the water by the ropes detached from the cannon.

“Death’s blood!” he cried. “Almost I had forgotten our hostage.”

They hauled the stout purser from his abiding-place.

“The cock-boat will hold you and your men,” Sir Ralph in-formed Udai Singh, “and this stout rascal must needs be towed. Well, a wetting will do him no great harm and it will still his tongue.”

It was a strange procession that wended its way from the flagship to the dark shore shortly before midnight that eventful evening. In the van the Englishman rowed the heavily laden skiff. A rope attached to the stern guided the Rájputs in the cock-boat, who splashed clumsily with their oars and breathed dark curses upon seacraft, large and small.

Another rope led from the cock-boat to the struggling purser, who had been informed that if he made outcry he would be be-headed.

“Surely we must strike off the heads of the others,” Udai Singh had objected.

It was peculiar to the Rájput chivalry that their splendid fairness to foes did not extend to commoners.

“Nay; they will be safe, trussed in the forecastle,” laughed his leader. “They saw little of what passed, and we do not wish to slay men needlessly.”

So it happened that when the admiral and his companions re-turned to the flagship later in the night they found the crew bound and clamorous in the foredeck, the slaves excited and fearful, and the purser nowhere at all.

The seamen when released protested that demoniacal river pirates had stormed the ship. Both the chirurgeon and the purser were missing. Natives of Surat said the next morning that they had seen the palanquin of the former conveyed to a caravansary up the hillside.

But no chirurgeon was to be found at the caravansary. Numerous horse tracks led into the interior from here, and under threat of torture natives disclosed that certain Rájputs had been seen in the vicinity.

This however did not aid the Portuguese to recover their missing papers and treasure. A hastily formed search party returned in two days without news of the daring invaders.

The Rájputs and their spoil had vanished into the jungle.

Sir Ralph and Udai Singh were for the moment in accord. Both wished to make speed to Kabul. The horses were pressed to their limit, and camels were procured when they reached the province of Marwar, and their friends.

Here a rider joined them with word from Krishna Taya: “Haste to the court. Raja Man Singh has need of you and those you bring.”

This was the message, and it accorded with the wishes of Udai Singh, who was secretly pleased at the new importance of his cavalcade.

Sir Ralph found food for thought in wondering if Krishna Taya had learned of their looting of the Portuguese fleet. The woman had an uncanny knowledge of all that passed in the Mogul’s land.

But he was now able to face the issue with confidence. He had a game of his own to play, daring and difficult, yet one that was to his liking.

He had abandoned his horse for a camel, and his native garments for the finest velvet suit in the purloined wardrobe of the envoys. A plumed hat sat his yellow curls jauntily; a silver chain supported a jeweled cross at his throat; his beard had been trimmed and scented by the involuntary aid of the sulky chirurgeon; his cloak was of finest purple plush.

“Ho, Udai Singh!”

He waved his gloved hand at the laden caravan and his two captive Portuguese.

“Behold the Portuguese embassy, bound for Kabul!” “And at Kabul—”

Udai Singh touched the hilt of his scimitar meaningly.

“’Tis well.” Sir Ralph offered his recently acquired snuff box to the Rájput, who took a pinch with the courtesy that custom prescribed for his rank and caste.

“Tomorrow we be enemies, and today we be—friends.”

Udai Singh glanced at him curiously. The new splendor of his companion was not lost on him.

“You have put your hand on the knees of the many-armed gods, Ferang,” he said.

V

In his red tent Jani Beg sat at chess with Shah Abbas. The Uzbek bent his massive shoulders over the ivory board and scowled. The Persian, his dark eyes mellow with hashish, moved the tiny gold warriors with consummate skill.

“I take your rukh, my friend,” he smiled, removing a miniature castle from its square.

Jani Beg muttered an oath and reached for his wine cup. It was empty, and Shah Abbas motioned for one of his girl slaves to refill it.

“You must taste my wine of Shiraz,” he urged politely.

Then, as the other hesitated, he signed to the girl to fill his own bowl first. He glanced as he did so with lazy admiration at the smooth form of the half-nude slave.

“Nay, I also will drink,” he laughed, “lest you think there be poison in the cup. How runs the verse?

Life drags its steps from day to day

To Death’s dark caravansary.

“If I quaffed poison from your cup,” quoth Jani Beg grimly, “my dagger would let out the life of one poet whose spirit would anger the stars with verses as bad as the scent of a decayed flower.”

“Eh, your eloquence astounds me!” Shah Abbas exclaimed in mock delight. “Nay, I know a verse to cap your speech—

Nowhere blows the rose so red

As where some Persian sultan bled.

“I think Omar himself could not have said it better,” he added complacently. “I must have my scribe write it down with the couplet I uttered to the Mogul’s messenger. It was my wit, I doubt not, that made Jahangir decide to journey hither.”

“Ho, I thought I had arranged that matter.”

Jani Beg glared at his companion like a dog seeking a bone of contention. The veiled mockery of the Persian always angered him, and tonight the nerves of the two men were on edge.

“You take a mimic castle with brave skill, but you have not yet forced the Khanjut wall with your cannon.”

“Fool! It is not yet time for the assault. Jahangir does not leave Kabul for several days, and we planned to delay the storming till his arrival.”

“True,” admitted Jani Beg morosely.

He studied the chessboard and moved a piece. Shah Abbas smiled.

“You have entered the trap I set, Jani Beg. See—I advance this pawn, so, and—shah m ’at!”

“Shah m’at* the king is dead.”

Jani Beg glanced up curiously.

“A good omen, that,” he added.

“Yes, a castle is taken and a monarch dies. That likes you well.”

“And you.”

The Uzbek looked about the tent cautiously. Only two slave girls were present.

“Our plans go well. Khanjut is beset on every side. The breach is wide enough now for the attack. The garrison is thinned by arrows and hunger.”

“It is rumored Shirzad Mir lies on his death bed. Only that stout scoundrel Abdul Dost remains to be reckoned with. The Ferang has vanished somewhere—to purgatory, I hope.”

“Doubtless he has forsaken a falling house. He is but a merchant, when all is said—though the witless raja names him an ameer of the sea.”

“Raja Man Singh hunts in the hills of Koh-i-Baba, complaining that we do naught here but sit on a carpet.”

“The Rájput will awake to his error when his hundred horse-men face my three thousand Persians.”

“And—” Jani Beg lowered his voice cautiously—“I have summoned new levies of Uzbeks from Ferahana and the Kara Kirghiz. Between us we will muster a full eleven thousand men-at-arms.”

“Jahangir has no thought of our numbers,” assented the Persian, “or even that foolhardy prince would not venture to Khanjut with his four thousand-odd followers.”

“Bazaar hangers-on, eunuchs and slaves for the most part. I doubt if Jahangir could mount two thousand able-bodied soldiers in all his camp.”

The Uzbek’s tawny eyes gleamed.

“My spies have reported the main army of Rájputs still in northern Hindustan.”

“A good place for them,” approved Shah Abbas smilingly. “I like not these horsemen of the raj. They are furies from hell in battle, as they reck not of their own lives.”

“They are distant. They could not ride here in half a moon, and Jahangir has pledged his coming within a week.”

Jani Beg could not refrain from speaking the exultation that heated his brain, warmed by the strong wine the slave girls had given him.

“Great stakes are on the gaming board, Shah Abbas. Once we have seized the Mogul—”

“Or he dies—”

“—Better our captive—the artificial empire of India will be rent. Your home levies from Isphahan and Khorassan will move across the border to the Indus. My Uzbeks will unite with the Hazaras, and I shall be joined by the Mongols from the northern steppe. Kabul and Lahore will fall like rotting fruit—”

“Kandahar is ours for the plucking—”

“We will sweep down to the plain of Hindustan once the north-ern Mohammedan tribes have joined my standard—as they will

if the cry of a holy war is raised. The chieftains of Kashmir are in half-revolt at this moment. The Dekkan is but half subdued. Only the Rájputs will remain.”

His high voice had risen in spite of his caution.

“The rajas will be content to hold their own lands again. Nay; with Raja Man Singh in our hands we can treat with them to our advantage. Once the figurehead of the Mogul is severed from the empire, it will be open to conquest by the sword—”

“By the beard of my fathers!”

Suspicion gleamed in the Persian’s glance.

“Your plan leaves little comfort for me. Eh—how do I know you mean to play fair? No one may trust your word—” “You must abide by it.”

Jani Beg caught the other’s plump wrist in his iron grasp. The slave girls stared at the stark passion mirrored in his broad face.

“By the blood of the Prophet and the ninety-nine holy names of Allah, can you afford to question me? Whose horsemen hold this plain? Who has the soldiery powerful enough to take Kabul this moment? Who has the means and the will—if he choose—to slay you in this tent?”

Shah Abbas was no coward. But the ferocity of the Uzbek held his gaze in fascination. Slowly the light faded from Jani Beg’s slant eyes.

“Nay, Shah Abbas,” he growled, “you and I have one hate and one foe. We will keep faith in this.”

“I doubt it not.”

The Persian was once more master of himself.

“As surety,” continued Jani Beg, “I will take on myself the more hazardous task of the two. When Jahangir lifts the royal standard for the assault of Khanjut, I will lead my Uzbeks in the rear of the Rájput horsemen. The men of Hindustan will claim the van of assault by hereditary right. This will rid us of some troublesome swords, for the garrison of Khanjut is not yet powerless.”

“The stars betoken good omens.”

Jani Beg snorted.

“Believe ye the message of the stars?”

“Believe ye the word of Allah, Jani Beg?”

“When it serves my need.”

The Uzbek reached for a wine cup and, finding it empty, dashed it on the ground.

“But the Rájputs will not return from the assault. My men will outnumber them nine to one, and those that escape the arrows of Abdul Dost will fare worse at my hands. That will account for the elegant Raja Man Singh.”

“And I?”

“You will remain near the person of Jahangir with your Persians. You have friends among the court

“Aye; they will be warned of what is to be.”

“See to it. Jahangir will keep about him a strong personal following. When you see my sword drawn against the Rájputs, turn on the Mogul’s guards. He will have elephants. So much the bet-ter.”

“Aye; it will then be hard to escape.”

“True. Once we have the Mogul among our men it should not take long to scatter any following that might muster from his camp.”

The Persian stroked his beard tranquilly.

“Before the assault I will station outposts in the Shyr Pass,” he observed. “So may we keep news of what has happened from spreading too swiftly, and gain time to mobilize our reinforcements.”

“’Tis well thought on, Shah Abbas.”

Jani Beg stretched his powerful arms and yawned.

“You warm my heart, Shah Abbas. Truly they have named you the Lion of Persia—”

The effect of the hashish had worn off when Shah Abbas summoned in the two slave girls and called loudly for his palanquin. He was consequently irritable. When he flung himself across the

knees of one of the women on the cushions of the palanquin, he felt for the other and found her missing.

“Ha, wanton!” he snarled. “Where is your mate? Two of you I brought with me—the other being a newcomer in my tent.” “I know not, my lord.”

But a clearer head brought sudden suspicion. Shah Abbas jerked around his bulk and seized the slave’s slim throat.

“Speak, misborn katchani!” he cried. “Open that lying mouth!”

He twisted the girl’s neck unmercifully.

“Whence fled the other? Nay, I remember now that she asked to come to attend me—”

The unhappy woman gasped and clutched at the arms that pressed her into the cushions.

“I know her not, lord!” she whimpered. “She offered a small string of pearls if she could come with me—”

“Death of the saints!”

Shah Abbas was genuinely alarmed, reflecting how freely he and his companion had spoken.

“Know you where she went?”

The slave shivered and felt of her throat.

“She asked me the way to the Rájput tents—”

At the Persian’s bellowed command his bearers halted. Shah Abbas leaped from the palanquin and swept the nearest rider of his escort from saddle, mounting in his place.

“Ho, follow me!” he shouted to his cavalcade of riders.

Cursing his drug-heated brain, he sought the nearest path to the tents of Raja Man Singh. He had wondered, in the tent, why the girl pleased him so. Now he knew it was because he had not seen her before. A strange woman had heard what passed between him and Jani Beg, and, being an unknown, might have understood

Turki.

He spurred his horse on furiously and gave a cry of delight at glimpse of a slender figure wrapped in a shawl that ran toward the nearby pavilion of the Rájput chieftain.

“A shirt of cloth of gold,” he cried, “to the man that brings her down with an arrow. Speed, fools! She must not gain the pavilion—”

Several of his escort plucked arrows from quivers.

“Haste!” he stormed. “A purse of rubies goes to the one—Ha!”

He reined in his horse on its haunches. He had seen the woman stumble and fall with a piteous cry. The feathered shaft of an arrow showed between her shoulder blades.

Attired in lounging robes, Raja Man Singh and attendants appeared at the entrance of the tent, attracted by the outcry. The Rájput stared from the girl to the mounted Persians.

Shah Abbas leaned over to look into the tortured, upturned face of the slave girl.

“Know you this wanton, Raja Man Singh?” he asked sharply. The chieftain scrutinized the dying woman.

“Not I,” he responded frankly, “although her dress might be that of the Rájput slaves. By the fire of bhairobi, it is ill to slay thus.”

Shah Abbas turned away indifferently.

“She stole—a small string of pearls,” he said. “Almost she escaped.”

Into the rocky pass leading to Kabul the caravan from the Portuguese fleet wended its stately way. The cooler air of the hill country made its passage easier, and it was within a few day’s march of the Afghan city when Sir Ralph urged his camel beside that of the stout Portuguese chirurgeon.

He swept off his hat in an elaborate bow.

“I have not yet asked your name, seignior.”

The other greeted him with an angry stare. Sir Ralph, however, had ascertained at Surat—at the caravansary—that his captive understood English.

“So the seignior is pleased to be haughty? Ah, well, it matters not. There was a distinguished sailor of your country whose name was da Gama. Perchance you have heard? I will call you da

Gama. Know that here hence you are Seignior Emanuel da Gama, minister of the Portuguese court, chirurgeon and confidant of— myself.”

Curiosity loosened the man’s tongue.

“And who, in the name of purgatory and hellfire, are you?” Sir Ralph shook his yellow curls reprovingly.

“Nay, you must not pry into such a weighty matter, da Gama. Udai Singh might tell you, but sometimes questions are ill-advised, seignior.”

“The Rájput admits you are his prisoner.”

Sir Ralph frowned.

“Fie, seignior! You have long ears. Must I crop them? Udai Singh means but that he is bound to convey me safely to the Mogul’s court.

“Which brings me to the point of my discourse. I shall present you and the worthy purser to Jahangir himself.”

The chirurgeon’s black eyes glinted shrewdly.

“The purser,” continued Sir Ralph, “is none other than his Excellency the Vice-Admiral of Portugal, as related in certain papers which I have been perusing at sore labor—for I know little of Portuguese script.”

Da Gama—as he had been christened—bristled.

“That dog of a scurvy seaman—”

“Nay; his Excellency.”

“Whelp of Satan!”

“Mayhap, yet for the nonce Dom Pedro Raymundo is he anointed. For the space of seven days I have been reading him his lesson, and he has it well by heart. Don Raymundo is a noble of acute perception, seignior, and he knows on which side of the gangplank he had best plant his foot.”

“You cannot force me to betray my honor by threats.” Sir Ralph twirled the nose-cord of his camel reflectively. “Did I say aught of threats, Seignior Chirurgeon? Nay; I have

appointed you to a higher rank and granted you a crest. Are you

not fain to be content? My faith, I would be in your boots.”

The Portuguese shrugged his bulky shoulders and subsided into irate silence. He was a man of temperament, not without courage, and he had tried several times to escape the caravan, hoping to reach the priests of Agra.

But the watchful Rájputs had restrained him. Udai Singh was not altogether content with the new whim of the Englishman; yet he was keen enough to see that it was best to keep the two Portuguese under close watch lest they work harm.

For the rest, Udai Singh had reasoned that by bringing Sir Ralph to Jahangir he was but fulfilling his duty. If Sir Ralph chose to carry along the spoil and the two prisoners, it was no concern of Udai Singh.

True, the Portuguese were somewhat in favor at court and there might be complaints; but Udai Singh knew that the Mogul would not be angered at receiving the gifts, and the responsibility for the whole matter lay upon the shoulders of the Englishman. Moreover, although he would not admit it, Udai Singh was led to follow out Sir Ralph’s wishes by the fact that the latter was the ram rukhi of Krishna Taya. So the worthy chirurgeon had met with little comfort in his attempt to escape and was consequently worried. He was the more troubled because he did not know what Sir Ralph was planning to do when they met the Mogul. But this last the Englishman was now ready and willing to explain.

“Riders have been sent ahead, seignior,” he observed thought-fully, “to inform Jahangir of the coming of the Portuguese embassy. Nay, do not scowl. Are you not the embassy? Have I not the papers from Lisbon?

“Do not forget, seignior,” he added coldly, “that I am in command of your person and that of the purser. I want you to play the part I have described. That is—be silent when you appear at court. That is all I ask.

“I will do the talking. Obey me and you will be well treated. You will be able to return in safety to Agra or the ships.” “Santa Maria! I will not do this—”

“It is the fortune of war, seignior. You will!”

Sir Ralph’s steady eyes hardened.

“Your worthy countrymen once put poison in my food at Delhi. Their intrigues drove me penniless and afoot into the hills. They befouled my name and would have got rid of me if they could.”

The chirurgeon shrugged his shoulders. Such measures were by no means strange to him.

“I shall deal with you fairly, seignior. All I ask is—silence. For a brief space.”

“Scoundrel! Low-born—”

“Seignior!”

Sir Ralph’s voice was dangerously mild. “Perhaps I have not told you that I was once knighted by my sovereign lady the queen on the deck of my ship after that slight affair of the Armada. It was my neglect not to tell you before. But do not forget that you have been told.”

The Portuguese looked full on his enemy.

“What seek you to do?” he demanded skeptically. “I have heard that you once failed in your request of a firman from the Mogul. You are a discredited man, an adventuring seaman. What do you hope to gain from your stolen finery and the papers you have stolen—”

“My faith!” Sir Ralph glanced at him whimsically. “All this is true, and it has tried me sorely. Yet now do I see a chance to achieve what I had near despaired of. Aye, with your merciful assistance, seignior, I shall gain the firman for my king. Remember, I ask silence. Nay, there is another small matter.”

He cast a meditative eye along the dusty cavalcade ahead of them.

“’Tis true I have small skill in reading. Still, certain phrases of your credentials please me not, Seignior da Gama. They vilify my king and my countrymen. They were ill thought on. Now the letters patent of the Portuguese embassy to Jahangir should not be marred by slanderous utterances.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Cross out the blasphemous sentences, seignior. It would not be fitting for my hand to touch your papers, but you—being one of the envoys—may do so.”

“Nay, I shall not.”

“I think you will. It would like me well to make a fair and proper copy of the letters in Turki to present to the Mogul, but— I love not such remarks concerning England. Tonight I will give you a pen—”

“You waste words.”

“My faith—no.”

Sir Ralph turned and called to Udai Singh, who brought up in the rear.

“This nobleman,” he informed the Rájput, “is weary of his camel. He would fain walk, or rather run.”

Udai Singh looked doubtfully at the chirurgeon’s bulk.

“Walking, seignior,” remarked the Englishman politely, “is excellent for the understanding. It clarifies the clouded intellect. Dismount, therefore, and think upon your stubbornness.”

Confronted by his enemies on either side, the Portuguese at first tried to cling to the neck of his beast. Propelled earthward by Sir Ralph’s heavy hand, he subsided into the dust with scant dignity.

Once afoot, Udai Singh was in no mind to allow the captive to fall behind. So the chirurgeon was forced to keep up with the caravan at a round pace, half walk, half run, that tried him sorely.

Clouds of dust choked him. When he lagged he heard the impact of Udai Singh’s steed at his heels. The sweat poured from his face and chest, and his legs, which had rarely been obliged to bear his weight for long, shook under the strain.

The attention of others in the cavalcade was attracted to this unusual spectacle, and da Gama’s dignity suffered accordingly. When he beheld the mirthful gaze of the purser, smugly seated on a horse, he gave in.

“The foul fiend take your papers!” he gasped. “I will swear by all the saints that I was tortured.”

“Nay—” Sir Ralph pulled his camel away—“that sounds ungracious. Of your own will and accord you will do it.”

The stout Portuguese glared, rocking with unaccustomed fatigue. The mirthful scrutiny of the Rájputs, who had small sympathy for a pampered body, decided him.

“Have done,” he groaned. “I shall do it.”

“From very love of me?”

“Sant . . . From love of you.”

“Mark, Udai Singh,” observed Sir Ralph, “what a man’s legs will bring him to. The fat captive cries that he loves me.”

That night they pitched their tents within sight of the towers of Kabul. And after the evening meal Sir Ralph sought out the Rájput leader, first making sure that the Portuguese were safely guarded.

“We are at Kabul, Udai Singh,” he said, sitting on the carpet beside the other, “and it is time you and I settled our quarrel.” The Rájput glanced at him inquiringly.

“It is not permitted to draw sword at Jahangir’s court, Udai Singh. This is our last night, and the ground is fair for sword play. I will keep my promise.”

Udai Singh did not speak for a long moment.

“It is well, Ferang,” he responded mildly. “The gods are angered by a broken pledge. Yet I am bound to others.”

“The quarrel was not of my seeking. I knew not the meaning of the ram rukhi.”

Udai Singh seemed to be wrestling with a serious problem.

“Once, Ferang,” he said, “the Queen of Chitore sent the ram rukhi to Humayon the Mogul and he took it. He mustered twice a hundred thousand spears to ride to the aid of Chitore, which was besieged. Eh, he rode slowly, slowly. He dallied, full of the idea of chivalry. But while he dallied the siege was pressed.”

Sir Ralph waited, knowing by experience that Udai Singh never talked without a purpose.

“Chitore was the gem of the Rájputs, Ferang. It was the jewel in the diadem of Marwar. It is like music in the mouths of our children.

“My grandmother was in Chitore at that time. To hearten her husband she mounted, with other women, and took up a spear. She rode down the cliff and found death on the lances of the enemy. It was well done.”

He glanced reflectively over the huddle of small tents and the kneeling camels to the evening sky, which was fast changing from purple to a full, blood red.

“Humayon and his men rode slowly. When was a Mogul swift to aid others? Chitore fell.”

“And Humayon?”

“He kept the ram rukhi, for he loved to tell of his chivalry. Eh—could he name back his fathers for thirty-six generations, as we of the Marwar clan of Chitore? Yet he was fond of a good tale.”

Udai Singh traced patterns idly in the sand with the point of his scimitar.

“The sin of the sack of Chitore,” he added, “has become an oath of the Rájputs. It was taken by the army of Khorassan.

“The queen who sent the ram rukhi put on her bridal garments and ran into the johar fire kindled by the women in the vaults of Chitore. Since then the doors of the vaults have been closed. Twelve thousand women followed their queen.”

Sir Ralph fumbled for words and failed to find them.

“The men,” concluded Udai Singh tranquilly, “donned the saffron garments of death and painted their faces with turmeric. They ran forth with jewels upon their turbans, and there were none who cared to survive the death of their women. Such is our custom.”

The picture Udai Singh had painted with a few words was vivid even to the unimaginative Englishman.

“Why should a man shrink from the halls of Yama, or the hot embrace of the bhanuloka? His name will live in the annals of

his clan. Few know the heart of the Rájputs. If they knew that, they would read the secret of India.”

He turned suddenly on his companion.

“Such is the ram rukhi, Ferang. You did not know its meaning, and you do not now. But before you leave India, if it is the will of the many-armed gods that this should come to pass, you will perhaps understand more.

“You will understand the strength of the bond that unites you with Krishna Taya. Not in the warmth of love, but in the colder tie of honor.”

“But what need had Krishna Taya of me?” demanded the Englishman awkwardly.

“Nay, am I the one to say? But she has willed this thing, and it will suffice. What is in her mind you may learn. The shadow of a great happening is in the land. The rumor of war passes over the Mogul land.”

Sir Ralph stared at his inscrutable companion.

“Has Krishna Taya said so?”

As Udai Singh was silent, he pressed his inquiry.

“Whom does the woman serve?”

“She serves the Rájputs.”

“And Raja Man Singh?”

“He also serves the Rájputs.” Udai Singh glanced around cautiously. “We shall not fight, you and I, Ferang. The gods have willed otherwise. I have thought upon it long; and I will not draw weapon against the ram rukhi of Krishna Taya. The Mogul has left Kabul and is on his way to Khanjut.”

“And we—”

“Shall follow. Word has reached me from Krishna Taya. We must make all speed to the pass of Shyr though which Jahangir and his court are now proceeding.”

Many things raced through Sir Ralph’s mind—the difficulty of meeting the Mogul as he had planned, the urgent necessity to reach the court before it gained the Khanjut camp, where he

would at once be recognized. Udai Singh, however, was a man of one idea.

“We will not cross swords, Ferang,” he declared, “because Krishna Taya has need of you. It is my task to bring her to you.” The Englishman looked up frankly.

“You and I have fought side by side, Udai Singh, and eaten of the same bread and meat. Why can we not be friends?”

“That also may come. But only when you have served Krishna Taya.”

He bent his handsome head nearer.

“Do not dally with your own thoughts as Humayon did.” With that he rose and stalked away through the tents. Sir Ralph gazed after him uncertainly.

VI

When the Mogul mounts for war the standard of yaks’ tails is lifted; the elephants sound their challenge and lift a knee in the loyal taslim. A million men will follow the standard.

But in the sight of Allah is the Mogul more than one of the

million? Muslim proverb

The narrow pass of Shyr had been transformed by the advent of the camp of Jahangir. The Mogul traveled slowly, taking his ease and attended by the court, men of all ranks and provinces. Midway in the pass Jahangir had received news from Rájput messengers of the coming of the Portuguese embassy.

He decided, against the advice of his Persian followers, to receive the foreign emissaries in the pass. Being a lover of amusement, he was more inclined to this from the reports of valuable gifts brought by the strangers, and by his intention to hold a festival of the harem at their arrival.

These festivals were a part of the court life, and one was now due. On such occasions the royal tents were given over to the harem and the katchanis, who received sundry presents from the ameers and mansabdars.

It was also prescribed by custom that the Mogul should not see the ambassadors until they made their formal entry. In this instance Jahangir arranged a reception of the usual splendor.

The royal pavilions had been pitched along the clear stretch by the bank of the Amu Daria. A double line of cavalry extended down the pass. Cannon were sounded as the embassy reached the first of the cavalry.

A group of ameers rode out to meet the cavalcade that came up the pass. They turned and rode back at the head of the procession. A lane had been cleared through the throngs of onlookers to the royal pavilion, where the elephants were drawn up.

The beasts were robed for ceremony in their cloth of gold and breast- and head-pieces of gold and silver. The sides of the pavilion were drawn up, disclosing a gallery of carved sandalwood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, wherein sat Jahangir.

Two railings extended beneath the gallery, the inner one containing the higher ameers of the court—the Persian councilors, northern emissaries, the leading Rájputs and a group of black-robed Portuguese priests who were given this position by special favor.

Such was the scene that opened before Sir Ralph when he rode up at the head of his men. A setting of splendor in the barren, stony valley, ringed with its sunlit pine slopes.

Sir Ralph reflected grimly that the setting was different from that of his first visit to the Mogul. Then he had got no nearer the peacock throne than an audience with certain high ameers of the Persian party and an unpleasant encounter with Portuguese priests.

He could not be sure that some of the men who had seen him at Delhi were not now in the pavilion of the Mogul. If so, they would be likely to recognize him in spite of his change of costume.

But they would scarcely identify him until he stood before Jahangir. He had studied the etiquette of the court, and he knew

that once he had been presented in person to the monarch no one would presume to interrupt the ceremony.

By now they had reached the twin lines of waiting elephants. Behind the beasts the imperial kettledrums sounded a roll, beaten by musicians who squatted in the dust. Sir Ralph cast an appraising glance over his cortege.

The two Portuguese rode close behind his horse. They were scowling, but appeared in no mind to make trouble for him, especially as Udai Singh in all the finery that he could muster was within arm’s reach, mounted on a splendid Arab that danced play-fully under touch of spur.

Udai Singh seemed impassive, but the Englishman knew that the Rájput was keenly nervous at the importance of the coming ceremony and the part he had to play therein. However, Udai Singh had his orders from some one—perhaps Krishna Taya—and was prepared to aid Sir Ralph at all cost.

Behind the remaining Rájputs shepherded the led animals with the presents, attended by a company of slaves mustered by Udai Singh from somewhere.

So it was that Sir Ralph came to the audience with Jahangir that he had sworn he would obtain—came with an escort of two captive Portuguese and gifts plundered from his enemies. And the court that he approached was beset with his foes. Not easy circumstances for any envoy, but doubly difficult for the English-man, who was known to have sided with the rebels of Khanjut.

In his favor were three things. He was reasonably sure that his caravan under Udai Singh’s guidance had outstripped any couriers sent from the Portuguese fleet. He had laboriously acquired a knowledge of Turki and so was able to speak direct with the Mogul. And he alone of the assembly knew what course of action he was going to follow.

This last was a vital point. Neither the Portuguese priests nor the Persian councilors could prevent his speaking to the Mogul now. This opportunity was what he had craved.

For the moment the priests believed him to be the envoy from the fleet, arrived with unexpected speed. The chirurgeon and the purser behind him knew better, but—Udai Singh had his orders.

For the moment the cards were in his hand. He asked nothing better. Afterward would come recrimination, opposition, a storm of protest. Yet he had the opportunity to play his trump and win the favor of Jahangir.

He dismounted a dozen paces from the pavilion entrance. Within the shadow of the awnings he could see the watching throng and the gallery of the Mogul.

Over the head of Jahangir was a canopy of velvet and silk. From the feet of the sitting monarch a carpet stretched from gallery to floor and led between the lines of courtiers out to where he was standing.

A glance showed him that the two Portuguese and Udai Singh were afoot. He strode forward and paused at the pavilion entrance. A buzz of expectancy went through the crowd, who were waiting to see whether he would perform the prescribed low salaam or risk the displeasure of Jahangir by a European salutation.

Sir Ralph did neither. He spoke in a low aside to a watching mansabdar who was acting as captain of the guard. The officer took his message to a councilor of the outer railing, who in turn repeated it to a vizier directly beneath the balcony. This official spoke the message to Jahangir.

“The envoy, sire,” he whispered, “begs that you will grant him leave to make the salutation of his country.”

At Jahangir’s assent Sir Ralph swept off his plumed hat and made a courteous bow. He advanced to the first railing and repeated it. Here he waited until Jahangir signed for him to advance to a spot directly in front of and below the gallery.

With another bow the Englishman complied. He had learned his lesson in court etiquette. The Portuguese imitated him clumsily. Udai Singh salaamed in the customary manner, but with a splendid swagger which was pardoned in the Rájputs.

Jahangir glanced down with pleased expectancy. He was a broad man with slender wrists and ankles, richly robed, wearing the small turban with plume and tiara of the Moguls—a full-bearded, calm-eyed man, somewhat bored, vain, yet instinct with courtesy and a genuine desire to play the part of a benevolent monarch despite his self-indulgence in powerful stimulants and the vices of the age.

Sir Ralph glanced up at him confidently, eagerly, holding his excitement under iron restraint.

He extended his documents to a waiting eunuch, who conveyed them abjectly to the hand of Jahangir. The Mogul took them, opened the scrolls and glanced at them impassively.

They were in Portuguese, but Jahangir recognized the crest. He beckoned to a second attendant.

“Clothe the envoy in a serapah,” he commanded.

Sir Ralph allowed himself to be robed in a brocade vest, a silken sash ornamented with gold, and a turban. While this was being done he glanced back at his companions.

The Portuguese had caught the eye of the watching priests. A nudge from Udai Singh had restrained any impulse on their part to speak, but the priests within the railing had scented something amiss.

Perhaps they had failed to recognize the officials; perhaps Sir Ralph’s un-Portuguese appearance had stirred their suspicions. They were frowning and whispering among themselves.

Clad in the robe of honor, Sir Ralph turned and nodded to Udai Singh. The Rájput signed to the waiting slaves, who advanced bearing the gifts.

The Portuguese had chosen their presents well, with a knowledge of the fancy of Jahangir. Gold or jewels would hardly have appealed to the man who owned in person the treasure of a hundred kingdoms.

But the quaintly wrought clocks, the engraved comfit-boxes and the illuminated volumes aroused his keen pleasure. He fin-

gered the silver images of the saints and the silver-chased pistols with satisfaction.

He received the painted portrait of a Portuguese monarch with critical complaisance. The art of portraiture was well known in India, where the artists were almost as skilled as in Europe. The Flemish tapestries and the brass cannon likewise met with his approval.

Sir Ralph then took from his throat the crucifix, which was handed to Jahangir as the personal gift of the envoy. This completed the ceremony of the presents.

“Will the Conqueror of the World* receive my letter and read what is written therein?”

A murmur went through the assembly. Few had thought that the envoy would speak fluent Turki.

“It will be a pleasure greater than words can paint to read what is brought from without the World Empire.”

Silently the Englishman extended a missive which he took from his girdle. A eunuch broke the seals and held it for the Mogul to read. There was an involuntary craning of necks behind Jahangir, who studied the letter intently.

Once his brows went up and he stroked his beard. Surprise and bewilderment were slowly mirrored in the faces that read over the monarch’s shoulder. The missive, which had been written in Turki by Sir Ralph himself, was readily understood.

Jahangir glanced from the letter to the waiting envoy, from Sir Ralph to the letter.

“By all the gods,” he exclaimed involuntarily, “this is a riddle. This letter is from one who calls himself the king of England. It asks for a trade alliance between my empire and the distant kingdom of England.”

Sheer bewilderment held the throng of courtiers silent. The priests, who had caught what was said, pressed nearer the gallery,

* Interpretation of the name Jahan-Gir.

scowling. The two Portuguese behind Sir Ralph looked on blankly. They knew no word of Turki.

“Nay, sire,” Sir Ralph said instantly, “I am the envoy of my sovereign the king.”

“Of England or Portugal?”

“Of England.”

A Persian councilor who had been listening closely attempted to whisper to the Mogul, but Jahangir motioned him impatiently aside.

“This is verily a riddle,” he frowned. “I was told that the embassy from the Portuguese, who are my friends, waited speech with me. Did my ameers seek to deceive me?”

“Nay, sire. I am come from the Portuguese fleet. I have placed in your hand the credentials of the Portuguese. But my message is from one who would be your friend, who desires your good will and amity. From my lord of England.”

At this point one of the black-robed priests raised his hand and endeavored to gain the attention of Jahangir. The Mogul, however, was waxing curious. Sir Ralph had carefully planned the effect of his words.

“I know naught of the English,” he exclaimed irritably. “They live beyond all the seas. They have sent no embassy to my court. The Portuguese have said that they are evil-souled pirates—”

“Sire,” Sir Ralph broke in audaciously, “will you grant me leave to explain my presence? Two years have I waited to address the World Conqueror. I bear tidings that have been kept from you—that should reach your ears.”

Curiosity is a potent force. Fronted with a riddle, Jahangir was in no mind to let it pass without explanation. He signed angrily to those who were trying to distract his attention.

“Speak!” he ordered, and to his followers:

“Peace! The man has been presented to me in audience. I would hear what he has to say.”

“Intrigue and bribery, sire,” began Sir Ralph promptly, “have kept me from your presence. If I had not escaped poison I should not be here.”

He spoke forcibly, directly. Sir Ralph was at best no courtier, and he had the blunt speech of an English seaman. In the court where he now stood, plain speaking and honesty were an unknown quantity. Yet his only chance lay in arousing the interest of Jahangir.

“The Portuguese drove me from Delhi when I first came. They won over my interpreter and the ameers to whom I spoke. They whispered to those near you that the English were pirates.”

He had the attention of the Mogul now. Jahangir was nervously alive to hints of bribery about his person.

“A hundred years ago the Portuguese first came to India. Two years later a fleet under da Gama captured and slew a shipload of Muslim pilgrims bound for Mecca; later this same envoy of Portugal hanged fifty fishermen seized in the harbor of Calicut.

“This policy of aggression was followed by Dom Francis Almeida, who broke up and harassed a Muslim fleet off the Gulf of Cambay. In the lifetime of Akbar, your father, the Portuguese operating from Goa, which they had taken, defeated the combined princes of Bijapur, Ahmadnagar and Calicut.”

Just as the first of the speech had been greeted with a murmur of approbation from the Mohammedans of the court, so now this reference to Goa drew forth a stir from the Rájputs.

Sir Ralph, now sure of undivided attention, outlined briefly the evils of the Portuguese regime in the empire, the religious bigotry of a people that preached holiness and oppressed captured natives.

“Only the Mogul should hold power in India,” he said boldly. “Yet these poisoners and intriguers of Goa keep whom they choose from your presence. They have promised riches to the Moguls from their trade. Have you seen those riches?”

He could guess nothing from Jahangir’s face, but the priests were obviously disturbed.

“The power of the Portuguese on the seas is waning. The flag of England is entering the Indian Sea. Half a lifetime ago there was a great sea-battle between the ships of England and the empire of Philip, of which Portugal is only a part. Our enemies were crushed and lost many thousands.“

“How may I know the truth of this?” broke in Jahangir. Sir Ralph smiled.

“Nay, I was there. And another who fought the Armada will come to your court. His word will bear out my tale, and he is Captain Hawkins, an ameer of the sea.”

He swept his hand at the pile of gifts.

“Here is witness. Nay, I alone with Udai Singh and some Rájputs have stripped the wealth of the Portuguese embassy. Because of my wrongs I have done this. Yet he who is coming after me will do greater things.”

He faced the scowling Portuguese.

“Is it an evil thing to avenge a wrong? What says the law of the Prophet? I and those of my country and my king desire to despoil no one. We seek the rights of trade. But an injury we never forget.”

“How came the Rájputs to aid you?”

“In the bonds of friendship. I alone take the blame. They obeyed orders. I brought the message of my sovereign to the Mogul. If I have done ill it is for the Mogul to say. None other.”

Something like admiration showed in the handsome face of Jahangir, but also misgivings. A vizier whispered to him. Sir Ralph awaited his reply quietly. When he would have spoken, one of the Portuguese stepped forward with a low salaam.

“Harken, sire,” the man exclaimed forcibly, “to the word of your servant. Like the warmth of the sun your righteous judgment nourishes the land and its people. Whithersoever the wind blows the uprightness of Jahangir, Conqueror of the World and Ruler of the Earth, is known.

“An offense has been committed against our countrymen. I ask that you pass judgment upon the offender.”

He glanced at Sir Ralph scornfully. The early Portuguese in India were not lacking in boldness. But they were political tools, sent to win favor from the broad-minded Akbar and Jahangir. Their accomplishment in India was purely in the way of temporal power.

“What is this man but a sea-robber?” he cried, his hatred gaining the upper hand. “He is an adventurer, without caste or rank. Before your wisdom answers him I plead that you will hear our speech upon the matter.

“Let time and wise counsel influence your decision. Do not grant him what he asks now, but later when you may inquire fully into the rights of the matter.”

Sir Ralph threw up his head.

“Soft words are the tools of the evil, Conqueror of the World,” he said calmly. “Is it not the law of the Moguls that a visiting ambassador may not be threatened with such a charge? I claim the privilege of an envoy.”

Jahangir stroked his beard meditatively. He was by no means a weak-minded man. But his position as ruler of a half-dozen nations and as many religions made caution a necessity.

“I pledge the safety of your person, Sir Ralph,” he responded mildly.

“Sire,” put in the Portuguese shrewdly, “you are beset by many cares. Tonight is the festival of the harem, which has long been prepared for your delight. Nay, it would be a sin if your honored enjoyment were impaired by this upstart. Postpone the matter until you can weigh both sides.”

“Time,” objected Sir Ralph, “will not make right a wrong. England asks the open hand of friendship. Will you refuse?”

But Jahangir was thoughtful. The power of England was still unknown in India, and—he had honored the Portuguese with his favor.

“I must think upon this,” he decided. “Verily, I will speak with you again. Tonight you will make merry with us. For you are a bold man, and I am fain to like you.”

With that he rose. The interview was at an end, the papers handed to his courtiers. Sir Ralph bowed.

He had played his trump card. And it had failed.

That night the bank of the Amu Daria was transformed into a torch-lit garden. It was the evening of the harem festival, when women could be seen by courtiers half veiled or unveiled, the hour when the charms of the katchanis—the dancing-girls—were bared for all who would to see.

The shrill music of Hindustan crept from concealed coverts along the bank of the river. The plaint of hidden musicians swept the silk-booths, wherein clustered the women of the harem.

Among the booths wandered Persian, Rájput, and Muslim nobles. High ameers, arm in arm with sturdy mansabdars, sought out the booths where ornaments, perfumes and trifles of various kinds were bartered with the utmost good nature.

A bearded Kashmir lord attracted attention to himself by loudly declaring that a jade bracelet offered by the wife of a Khorassan chieftain was worth scarce an ounce of silver, while the woman, nervous yet pleased at the publicity of the occasion, demanded at least two pieces of gold.

Such was the spirit of the festival—jest and a play of wit.

The dark-faced Kashmiri raised his price to two ounces of silver, while the begum with great display of dark eyes and flashing teeth insisted that he was verily a thief of thieves, a true Kurd. She cried for gold. The onlookers smiled.

The noble shrugged his robed shoulders.

“I will give three pieces,” he laughed. “By the beard of my father, you are a shrewd mistress, begum!”

And he tossed down three pieces of gold. The watchers applauded, save for a few Mohammedans, who disliked the appearance of women unveiled in public.

Through the crowd wended slim katchanis, reveling in the music and high spirit which were twin partners of their profession. For the space of the festival they were on an equal plane with the wives and families of the nobles. And Jahangir himself talked and jested with them.

Such was the evening of the harem—when the Mogul’s court forgot intrigue and ambition in child play. But there were many who did not forget.

Among the court were certain northern nobles who talked briefly with elegantly dressed Persians. And certain eunuchs who bore messages from those who did not like to be seen conferring with the Persians. Under the mask of light-hearted abandon there ran an undercurrent of suspense and expectation unperceived by Jahangir and his immediate friends.

The Mogul himself was well content.

He was playing the part of a gracious host to his court, laughing at the wit of the women and loudly exclaiming upon the by-play of a certain katchani who had made a Muslim merchant pay many times its value for a pair of pearl earrings.

“Ho,” he chuckled, “here is one who is by breed a getter of profits; yet this sightly maiden has taken him by the ears!”

The courtiers echoed the good humor of their lord, save for Sir Ralph. The Englishman had been forced to join Jahangir’s party by the hospitality of the Mogul. But the scene of that afternoon would not be dismissed from his mind.

He had made a bold stroke. He had claimed the firman for England from the Mogul. Interference by his enemies the Portuguese had checkmated him. He had no delusions concerning what was in store for him.

It mattered little that Jahangir had sworn that his person would be inviolate. The Portuguese of the court entourage had delayed Jahangir’s answer. They were even now probably comparing notes with the two Portuguese he had taken prisoner. For neither Udai Singh nor his charges were to be found.

Time would serve his foes. Pressure would be brought to bear upon ameers and eunuchs close to Jahangir. He would be painted as little better than a pirate. Other presents would be hurried from Surat to the court. Bribes would not be spared.

His attempt to win Jahangir’s favor had been foolhardy. If it should fail, as seemed likely, he would endanger the success of Hawkins’s embassy when that should arrive.

Sir Ralph was moody. He suspected rightly that many of the ameers who were most attentive to him were leagued with the Portuguese.

Outwardly he was smilingly observant of all that went on. But he missed Udai Singh. In fact he saw few Rájputs in the throng.

Jahangir, who seemed to have lightly dismissed the affair of the afternoon, drew him toward the katchani’s booth.

“Verily, Sir Ralph,” he whispered heartily, “here is a beauty whose face is like a rose, who is a stranger to my harem. She wears the dress of a Rájput, although the women of Marwar and Oudh are not of the katchani caste.”

He pointed out the woman who had just sold the pearl ear-rings. Sir Ralph followed him perforce to the booth, while other courtiers pressed around.

“Ho, Pearl of the Harem!” exclaimed Jahangir in high spirits. “Have you a bracelet that I may buy? Nay, I am but a poor man, and I can pay no more than some few copper coins.”

“Then you can do no business with me, O Poverty-Stricken Dweller of the Exalted Throne,” she chattered, and the courtiers, scenting the interest of their lord, applauded. “My bracelets are those of Oudh, and their worth is beyond price.”

Sir Ralph started. Until then in the faint light he had not looked fully upon the face of the woman. But he knew well the voice of Krishna Taya.

“Take pity upon me, Nightingale of the Twilight,” smiled the monarch. “I must have a bracelet. Perchance there is some poor ornament of silk—”

“Nay, would you have what cannot be bought?”

Krishna Taya’s white teeth flashed. Sir Ralph thought she cast him a warning glance.

“Surely you would not buy for gold a ram rukhi!”

Again the flicker of the dark eyes seemed to caution him not to recognize her.

“Such as the Ferang at your side has in his girdle?”

“By the splendor of Lakshmi!” swore the surprised Mogul. “Has the Ferang envoy bought a ram rukhi?”

Curious glances turned toward the straight figure of Sir Ralph. He was silent, pretending he had not understood, and wishing for the presence of Udai Singh.

That Krishna Taya was acting a part he knew. But what part? And what was her purpose in calling Jahangir’s attention to the pledge he carried?

“Nay, Lord of the World,” she responded swiftly. “The bracelet was given. The Ferang is the bracelet brother of the Rájputs. There is a service he must perform for the woman that gave it.”

Even the keen wit of Jahangir could not quite fathom whether the woman jested. He looked curiously at Sir Ralph.

“What grain of truth is in this?” he asked. “Have you truly the silk bracelet?”

Krishna Taya nodded imperceptibly.

“Aye, sire,” said the Englishman.

He showed the silk ornament, and Jahangir fingered it with a frown. The pretty ceremony of the ram rukhi was not lightly bestowed, especially upon a foreigner.

“Where got you this?

“At Marwar.”

“From whom?”

Sir Ralph thought swiftly. “From a woman of Raja Man Singh. I know not her rank.”

Again Krishna Taya signaled almost imperceptible approval. “’Tis a riddle!” The frown had not left Jahangir’s broad brow. “Eh, you also are a riddle, Ferang—an English pirate who dares to

confront me with stolen gifts and demand the royal firman—who makes grave charges against those high in my trust—”

“Who is a consort of rebels, sure,” put in the Kashmiri as if in jest.

“And a ram rukhi of a noble Rájput woman, sire,” smiled Krishna Taya, twisting an errant lock of dark hair into place behind the silver band across her forehead.

“And envoy of the King of England, sire,” amended Sir Ralph quietly.

Jahangir threw up his hand in mock bewilderment. Nevertheless, there was acute uncertainty in the long look he cast at the Englishman.

In the brief interval since that afternoon, Portuguese money had begun its work among his followers. The favorable impression made by Sir Ralph’s bold words at the reception was being rapidly effaced.

Sir Ralph could not fathom why Krishna Taya had called attention to the ram rukhi, unless it was to show Jahangir that he was allied after a fashion with the Rájputs.

The girl was as much a mystery to him as ever. He felt that he was a pawn, a piece moved hither and thither on the chessboard of intrigue.

More and more he began to sense the byplay of great political forces in the trifling events of the evening. And the feeling grew on him that Krishna Taya was disposed to be his friend.

“Can a man serve two mistresses?” demanded Jahangir, looking from him to the woman.

“Aye, when both have one heart,” responded Krishna Taya promptly. “Have you forgotten, O Lord of the World, that your mother was of the Rájputs?”

Seeing Jahangir’s frown deepen, her tone changed swiftly. She clapped her hands as if at a delightful thought, and became again the light-minded katchani. She was a woman who could play many parts.

“Is this a riddle, sire?” she chattered. “Nay, will you know the answer? In a pavilion behind this booth is a wise prophet of

Hindustan, one who can trace the shadow of the future on the scroll of fate.

“He will answer your questions. Your heart will be gladdened by sight of him.

“Come, then. Take my hand, and all mysteries shall be unveiled for the sight of the World Lord!”

Boldly she caught Jahangir’s arm and drew him laughingly into the booth. Some of the attendants started forward, but Krishna Taya waved them back.

“Nay, the Lord of the World will come with me alone.”

She seemed animated by the spirit of the festival, even perhaps by an overdose of bhang. Yet it was a serious matter for the Mogul to go unattended anywhere.

Jahangir followed her half-curiously, half-distrustfully. He motioned to the bearded Kashmiri.

“Attend me,” he said curtly.

Krishna Taya cast a mocking glance over her shoulder.

“Then shall the Ferang come,” she smiled. “Is he not the man of mystery?”

Jahangir nodded. The three followed the swaying form of the girl. It was a jest to Jahangir, who was more than interested in the wilfulness of Krishna Taya. The Kashmiri stalked after his lord with a dark glance at Sir Ralph, who kept pace with him.

They passed through the scented darkness behind the booth to the riverbank where a small tent loomed in the shadow under a giant willow. Into the tent Krishna Taya disappeared.

“Come, Monarch of Asia,” she called from within. “Come; for here is one who will delight your heart—a prophet of prophets, a master of the secrets of evil. Come, do you fear?”

Jahangir motioned the Kashmiri into the tent ahead of him. The warrior strode forward alertly, hand on sword. The Mogul and Sir Ralph followed curiously.

The interior of the pavilion was scantily lighted by a single brazier, from which came scent of ambergris and sandal-paste. A cloaked form stood behind the brazier, its face concealed as it made the low salaam.

Then the figure cast aside the cloak. It was Raja Man Singh. Krishna Taya’s laughter echoed musically.

The Rájput stood at ease before Jahangir, his elegant attire bearing no sign of the hard ride that had carried him from Khanjut. He greeted Sir Ralph with calm courtesy, seeming not a bit surprised to see the Englishman. He lifted his dark head jauntily, looked full into Jahangir’s eyes, and smiled.

“No soothsayer or magician am I, Lord of Asia,” he said directly, “but a bearer of grave tidings. It was best that we should speak alone”—he glanced once significantly at the Kashmiri— “hence the pretty trick of the katchani, who is a servant of the Rájputs and may be trusted.”

“Greetings, Raja Man Singh.”

Jahangir overcame his surprise.

“This man is a councilor of the Persians. You may speak before him.”

Raja Man Singh hesitated briefly, then bowed.

“Let the Kashmiri look to his ears then,” he said plainly. “Here be only friends and we seek no wolf’s friendship. Harken, Jahangir. I rode down the pass from Khanjut in the space of a single watch. Others who were on the way, I passed.”

“I knew not of your coming.”

“Nor did others, sire. Save for Krishna Taya. At Khanjut I scented evil in the air. Treachery lurks at the end of the pass—” “The rebel, Shirzad Mir—”

“Nay, the hill chief is sore wounded in his fortress. By Siva, he was a brave man. The thought has come to me that we wronged him. Was he not the chosen man of Akbar?”

“He took up arms against the Lord of the World,” put in the Kashmiri smoothly.

“Nay, against Jani Beg.” The Rájput turned from the other scornfully. “At Khanjut, Jahangir, I hunted stags in the hills. The Persians and Uzbeks thought that I idled. Eh—I let them think so. And I counted the levies that came down the northern passes

from Ferghana and the Kara Kirghiz. Lord, many thousands of horsemen are mustered before Khanjut.”

“To storm the citadel of Shirzad Mir,” growled the councilor.

“Five thousand would have sufficed for that. Three times five thousand are waiting in the foothills of the Koh-i-Baba. For what? Nay, it has an evil look.”

Jahangir stroked his beard in silence. Sir Ralph thought that the girl crept nearer to his side.

“Where falcons wheel and point,” continued Raja Man Singh boldly, “there is game marked for the slaying. Lord, I have followed your standard since I was a boy. I am of the blood of your mother.

“And I smell evil in the air of Khanjut. Jani Beg and Shah Abbas speak smooth words, but they whisper together. Many messengers have been sent back into Persia. Why has the storm of Khanjut been delayed?”

“For my coming,” Jahangir admitted tranquilly.

“In battle many things may happen. How many trustworthy horsemen are with you, lord? Perhaps two thousand, and of these scarce the same number of hundreds are Rájputs.

“Nay, come not to Khanjut. Mount your followers and ride down the pass to Kabul. There you may meet the main Rájput army which hastens north. That is my message.”

Jahangir bit his lip.

Sir Ralph glanced curiously at the keen, delicate face of the Rájput and the stout countenance of the Kashmiri. He understood little of what passed. But he felt the tension in the air.

“Sire—” the councilor bowed servilely—“surely Raja Man Singh has partaken too freely of opium, which is his failing. Jani Beg and Shah Abbas have invited you to their camp. Would they dare molest the Mogul? Is their friendship to be spurned on a breath of suspicion? That would be a serious offense.

“They are loyal now, and they number their followers by the thousands. Trust them, and they will be like a good scimitar in your right hand.”

“Perchance a dagger in your back, Jahangir.” The Rájput folded his arms defiantly. “I have seen what I have seen, and my eyes do not lie.”

All the merriment had fled from the Mogul’s handsome, indolent face. Graven lines of care appeared about his brow.

“Nay, Raja,” he temporized, “should I rein my horse from Khanjut now it would be taken for a sign of weakness.”

“Better that than death at the hand of a traitor.”

“The Rájput seeks to place your person in the hands of his army,” sneered the Kashmiri, emboldened by the hesitation of the Mogul.

Raja Man Singh’s lean hand shot out and closed about the hilt of the other’s scimitar. He whipped out the curved blade and thrust it into the Kashmiri’s hand, drawing his own at the same instant. So swiftly had he moved that the other could do naught but stare.

“Another word, O wise councilor,” he whispered, “and your sword will cross with mine. If that happens, look to your life.”

The man’s eyes gleamed in the faint light from the brazier and sweat showed on his forehead. He edged back toward the entrance of the pavilion.

Another moment and he had turned, to run swiftly into the darkness. The Rájput sheathed his weapon with a laugh.

“A scimitar tests a warrior’s words,” he said shortly. “Come, lord, give the order to mount and ride down the pass while yet there is time. Eh—I passed sentries by the Amu Daria who were newly posted. The nets of the hunters are closing about us. Trust your safety to the sword of Rájputana.”

“If you had proof—”

Jahangir was disturbed. It is possible that he might have followed the advice of his general if he had been allowed to decide the matter for himself. But while he hesitated and Krishna Taya added her voice to that of the raja, there was a commotion with-out the tent.

The flare of torches showed through the silk. Voices and foot-steps came rapidly nearer. Another moment and the pavilion opening was filled with courtiers, eunuchs and ameers. In the front of the group was the stout form of Shah Abbas.

“Greeting, Lord of India, and a myriad blessings.”

The Persian salaamed and stood erect, his mellow eyes taking note of the three others in the tent. Sir Ralph guessed that the Kashmiri had not been slow in bearing news of what was passing to his friends. Likewise, he wondered whether Shah Abbas had been with the party the raja had seen in the pass.

“No longer,” cried Shah Abbas eloquently, “could I restrain my desire to look upon the Presence, unworthy though I am. So I rode hither with a small escort to announce that those before Khanjut await your coming anxiously.”

“I am honored, Shah Abbas.”

Jahangir bent his head gravely. The coming of his courtiers seemed to have reassured him. He was a man of infirm purpose.

“Tomorrow,” continued Shah Abbas, pressing his advantage swiftly, “Jani Beg hopes to welcome your standard. The day after we have prepared a goodly spectacle for your pleasure. Nay, it will be finer than a score of elephant contests or the hunting of a hundred tigers. The rebel stronghold will be laid low and the Mogul will ride his elephant into Khanjut.”

For the first time he seemed to take notice of Sir Ralph.

“By the ninety-nine holy names of God!” he swore. “How is this? The Ferang dog at the side of the Mogul! Why, this scoundrel is escaped from Khanjut! He is a man with blood upon his head— the one that slew a score of Jani Beg’s men.”

Jahangir glanced at Sir Ralph uneasily. The Englishman realized the seriousness of his position. Shah Abbas had known of his presence in Khanjut—a fact which Raja Man Singh, for reasons of his own, had seen fit to overlook.

The Persian’s nimble wit let slip none of his advantage. His visit to Jahangir had been decided upon when he and Jani Beg

learned through their spies that Sir Ralph had appeared in the Mogul camp.

The Persian had seen a chance to deal a shrewd blow for him-self. His craftiness was the one thing needed to swing Jahangir’s decision.

If Shah Abbas had not visited the camp in the Shyr Pass that night the trap at Khanjut could not have been sprung; and the bloody scene before the Iron Gate, as Khanjut has been styled in Indian history, could not have been enacted.

“I have been told, sire,” cried Shah Abbas, “that this rebel is masquerading as the ram rukhi of a Rájput woman. Nay, I have myself seen him on the walls of khanjut.”

A clever stroke this, for it coupled in Jahangir’s mind Sir Ralph with the Rájputs, and by implication cast suspicion on the latter. “It seems to be true,” the Mogul admitted.

He wheeled impatiently on Raja Man Singh.

“Proof! Give proof of what you have whispered, and then I may believe. Not otherwise. Shah Abbas is our ally.”

The Rájput’s hand went to his sword. But Krishna Taya stepped forward.

“A woman of mine, sire,” she cried, “joined the slaves of yon-der Persian. She overheard the talk between Jani Beg and Shah Abbas. Straightway—so important did she deem it—she fled to the tent of Raja Man Singh. But Shah Abbas struck her down when she was about to breathe her message. Ask him why that was done.”

But Shah Abbas was not to be taken by surprise.

“Eh,” he muttered, “so this is Krishna Taya, who was once the slave of Sir Ralph. Jani Beg has said it. Perchance she is also his

ram rukhi?”

He glanced coolly at the startled girl.

“A woman without caste, a wanton—” he continued blandly. “Nay,” growled Raja Man Singh furiously, “she has honor in the Marwar clan—”

“And sees fit to consort with rebels?”

The Persian waved a jeweled hand amiably.

“I question not the honor of the Rájputs. Yet why is this woman dressed as a katchani? Surely her tale is wild. Doubtless she has drunk much bhang during this festival. The slave girl she mentions I slew for—a theft.”

He smiled triumphantly at Raja Man Singh.

“As for this Ferang,” he added swiftly, “the Lord of the World will surely not permit him to go free. I have heard it said he should be tried as a pirate for an offense against your good friends the Portuguese.”

“Jahangir,” said Sir Ralph, “has pledged my safety. I came to his court as envoy.”

Shah Abbas’s brows went up, and he fingered his scented beard daintily.

“As envoy from Shirzad Mir?”

“From England.”

“I have not heard of that khanate.” Shah Abbas turned deferentially to Jahangir. “I have a thought, sire, that this man is dangerous. We know naught of the tribe of England. But we have seen his sword drawn against you from behind the walls of Khan-jut. Nay, your word is sacred. But surely he may be confined as prisoner until his story can be examined?”

Jahangir glanced at his courtiers dubiously. A murmur of as-sent greeted the words of Shah Abbas, who seemed to have many friends present. At a sign from the Mogul two soldiers stepped to Sir Ralph’s side and bound his arms tightly behind his back.

“When we have dealt with the traitors of Khanjut,” added the Persian smoothly, “this man may be tried. Jani Beg waits to welcome you. Surely you need not doubt the Uzbek who has taken up your quarrel with Shirzad Mir. Have I not shown good faith by coming hither alone?”

“Nay, I doubt you not, Shah Abbas.”

Jahangir lifted his broad head with sudden decision.

“There is peace between Persia and Delhi. Tomorrow I ride bridle to bridle with you to Khanjut that all may know you are dear to me as my own blood.”

“Your words, sire, are like drops of water upon a parched gar-den.”

Shah Abbas turned aside to hide the exultation he could not keep from his eyes. But Raja Man Singh stepped forward.

“Then let me guard this man, sire,” he suggested bluntly. “It is the privilege of the Rájputs to watch over the person of the Mogul. The Ferang will be safe with me—safer perhaps than elsewhere.”

To this Jahangir assented, glad to have the troublesome mat-ter settled. The Mogul departed to entertain his new ally, Shah Abbas, and Raja Man Singh accompanied Krishna Taya out into the darkness, motioning the Englishman to come with them.

Back in the camp the music had struck up again and they heard the murmur of voices that greeted the appearance of the Mogul. The three were walking by the riverbank, the raja talking earnestly to the girl.

“There should be three horses here,” he said, glancing into the shadows. “Udai Singh was ordered to await our coming with the beasts. I had planned for Jahangir to leave swiftly.”

He cast about among the bushes, then called Udai Singh. There was no answer.

“Here is the spot,” said the girl anxiously. “And Udai Singh does not fail—”

She uttered a soft cry of alarm. Sir Ralph saw her stoop down. A glow from the distant torches struck through the foliage.

Bending close with the raja, he saw that Krishna Taya had raised something from the ground to her lap. He could make out the head and shoulders of a man.

“Udai Singh!” swore the Rajput.

“His tunic is damp with blood,” sighed the girl. “And the skin of his face is cold. Aie—he was a faithful man!”

The raja rose, his voice calm.

“Shah Abbas works swiftly. I will fetch you a horse. Remain here with the Ferang.”

He strode away into the shadows, and Krishna Taya replaced the body of her servant on the ground. Her light hand drew Sir Ralph back into the shelter of a thicket where the glow from the bazaar did not penetrate.

“Where the wolves have passed,” she said bitterly, “they may not come again. But we must have a care. Shah Abbas would fain lay your body and mine by poor Udai Singh. Aie—the curs!”

She was very quiet for a space, her hand still touching his arm. He could feel her silk veil against his cheek, and the faint scent of attar of roses crept into his senses. He was conscious of the throb of a beating pulse against his arm.

“The Mogul is blind!” she cried softly. “He does not see the pitfall set for him at Khanjut. There is a doom preparing for him— and for us of the Rájputs. A heavy doom. The river of Khanjut will run red. You will see it—”

She broke off, a catch in her limpid voice. The grasp on his arm tightened involuntarily. Sir Ralph, conscious that she was looking at him, was taciturn, as was his wont.

“I will not be there,” she whispered. “But I pray that the ram rukhi may safeguard you.”

“Tell me, Krishna Taya,” he asked seriously, “the meaning of the bracelet. Is there a service I can do you?”

“O foolish Ferang,” she laughed, “must you have a plain answer to all your thoughts? Seek you to learn truth from Krishna Taya? Know then the time will come when Raja Man Singh will stand with his back to a wall ringed around by many foes. Strike then to aid him.

“I have told him that in you we have a swift sword and a keen brain. When that time comes the ram rukhi will be fulfilled.”

The words of the dead Udai Singh came back to Sir Ralph’s mind.

“My friends are in Khanjut—if they still live. Shirzad Mir and Adbul Dost are my comrades, Krishna Taya.”

“Nevertheless, the Rájputs will fight beside you. I have a feeling that this will be.”

He laughed without merriment. “Death’s love, Krishna Taya. I am a prisoner, and already I have failed in my mission. A poor tool you have chosen. It is but a step from this bondage to the cells of Gwalior, and—my foes have the ear of the Mogul.”

“Trust Raja Man Singh. He is minded to aid you for my sake. And he is a man among many.”

Sir Ralph sought to look into her face.

Barely he could discern the dark mesh of her hair and the changing glimmer of her eyes. Her breath touched his cheek gently.

He pondered curiously upon the mystery of the girl. She had risked the anger of her clan to help him to Surat. His venture there had failed.

Still, she had spoken in his behalf boldly to Jahangir. He guessed that the ram rukhi had safeguarded him more than he was aware.

It had saved him from crossing swords with Udai Singh, and now it had—so Krishna Taya assured him—earned the goodwill of Raja Man Singh.

Owing to this he had been left unguarded with the girl. Yet he had no desire to attempt escape from the camp. Whither was he to go? Moreover, the raja had as good as given his parole.

“Why have you done this, Krishna Taya?” he asked bluntly.

She drew a quick breath, half sigh, half gasp.

“From the time I was given you as slave, Sir Weyand,” she whispered, “and you freed me, I have formed an image of you and placed it in my heart. I have prayed many times to the gods and bathed in the sacred river, yet the image has remained. So it cannot be an evil thing, but good.”

The words came swiftly in a torrent that would not be stayed.

“My heart became a garden that felt the warm sun of Spring. I watched you fighting on the walls of Khanjut when the men beside me sped arrows at you.

“I saw the sunlight strike on your hair that is like the brown mane of a lion. Truly, you walked among your men like a lion. It was my men who traced you down the Indus.”

He felt her hand pass over his forehead and touch his cheek.

“I interceded for you with Raja Man Singh. Aie, my lord, you were wildly foolish in what you did. Thought you to overmaster such foes by sheer bravery?

“Nay, you are like a child among my people and those of Shah Abbas. Yet I loved you for it.

“Are you not one fit to walk with the sun-born kings of Ayodhya? Or to bear the gold-rayed orb on your breast?”

Sir Ralph lifted his head uneasily at sound of a horse’s tread in the darkness. Krishna Taya also had heard it.

“My pride is great in my lord,” she said simply. “And—Krishna Taya glories in the ram rukhi. You are bound to me in the swami dharma—the brotherhood of my people in common danger—”

“Nay, I am a blunderer, Krishna Taya—”

“Nay, a warrior worthy to wear the ostrich feather, of the parentage of Ram. So I have told the raja, my lord. Aie—the image of my lord weighs heavily in my heart; now I must leave him—”

She dropped to her knees and for an instant pressed her slender body against him, clasping his bound hands with hers. Krishna Taya was but a child in years, and her love was that of a girl who has found a hero.

Sir Ralph would have loosened her grasp, but could not.

“Think not ill of Krishna Taya, my lord,” she whispered. “My time is now come, and the need of my clan has laid a task upon me. But as the falcon comes back to its master, I shall come to Khanjut and my lord.”

She sprang to her feet as twin shadows appeared beside the thicket. Raja Man Singh’s voice summoned her.

Sir Ralph, confused and embarrassed by the girl’s eager words, saw her form blend with the other shadows. Then the horse moved away at a walk and the Rájput came toward him alone.

“Whence went Krishna Taya?” asked the Englishman.

“To the army of the Dekkan, Ferang. She bears word for the Rájput cavalry to ride to Khanjut with all speed.”

“A girl—on such a mission?”

“Udai Singh is dead. Whom else may I trust—for the Rájputs of the army to believe?”

Raja Man Singh spoke moodily. Sir Ralph had never seen him so out of spirits.

“She can win through the network of Persian spies if any can, Ferang. Twenty thousand good horsemen ride from the Dekkan toward Kabul. But six days must pass before they can gain Khan-jut, even though they ruin a horse apiece and sleep not on the way.”

He stooped and gathered up the body of Udai Singh.

“Eh—who knows what is the will of the gods? Come, Ferang, we will bury our dead; then I shall partake of opium and talk much, for I am eaten with a sore trouble.”

VII

The toil of the hunters is not to be seen in the jungle, but when the hunted beast leaps, the snare is disclosed.

Jani Beg and Shah Abbas had planned well.

Throughout the three days after the visit of the Persian to Jahangir, their plans came silently to ahead. Outposts in the passes prevented dak runners from the Mogul from passing to the South. Khanjut and its thousands, besiegers and besieged, was isolated from the rest of India.

But not before a girl on a very good horse had slipped through the ravines of the Koh-i-Baba and circled Kabul, riding fast to the South.

At the polite request of Jani Beg, Jahangir pitched his great camp between the Persians and the Uzbeks. And the Mogul was given little chance to inspect the formation of the besiegers. Banquet followed banquet, drinking-bout drinking-bout. Khans of the northern tribes paid their respects to the Mogul with a great array of presents.

What was more natural than that these same khans should be attended by a numerous following of horsemen? So squadrons of Khorassanis, Hazaras, Afridis, and Kara Kirghiz assembled unnoticed—save by the alert Raja Man Singh—about the camp of the Mogul.

The reception to the Mogul took on the character of a triumphant durbar, under cover of which Shah Abbas moved his men with the same skill with which he manipulated the ivory and gold myrmidons of the chessboard.

The battalions of northern riders that had swelled down the passes from Ferghana were concealed in convenient nullahs. The human network was drawn about the Mogul and his followers, and closed.

Standing on the mound by the red imperial tent in front of which the yak-tail standard was planted, Raja Man Singh and Sir Ralph watched mail-clad, mounted archers of the Uzbeks form in position, ostensibly for assault. They saw hooded riders from the Irak plain wheel by in swallow-flight and halt their mounts beside the motley array of Jahangir’s followers. They sometimes caught glimpses of helmeted and quilted Black Kirghiz—fierce fighters and lawless—mustering to the banners of their leaders.

Meanwhile the few Rájputs and Muslims of Jahangir drank and slept. Raja Man Singh, however, slept little.

“What force has Jahangir—that he can trust?” he demanded bitterly of the Englishman. “A score of armored elephants— eunuchs—slaves—priests—water-carriers. None fit to wield a sword save my Rájputs and a few hundred Muslims.”

Sir Ralph had eagerly scanned the battered walls of Khanjut.

The Persian cannon had effected a wide breach. Inside this the defenders had stacked bales of cloth and cotton, and fagots smeared with oil.

But under another section of the walls reached the saps from the Uzbek camp. At daybreak on the morrow these saps would be exploded, tearing a new and wider breach.

On the heels of the explosion it was planned to launch the Rájput storm. Sir Ralph had little doubt of the success of the attack. Months of hardship and harrying by arrow and catapults had left their mark on the garrison.

Few hillmen were to be seen on the walls—or rather the stone heaps that had been walls. These few were ragged, their armor dulled. Sir Ralph saw men stagger from weariness as they labored to build up the crumbling ramparts.

The Khanjut River, flowing past the slope of the citadel, had been sturdily bridged by the Persian engineers. All the green verdure of the slope had disappeared, leaving a gray-brown stretch of torn earth and sliding rock.

He looked long and thought that once he saw the tall figure of Abdul Dost. The mansabdar had taken his stand on the wall over the mined section, where he could look down into the nearest trenches, protected by rawhide targets. Adbul Dost paid no heed to arrows that glinted by him.

“A brave man, that,” grunted Raja Man Singh, who had also noticed the defender of Khanjut. “It is an evil fate that bends our sword against him and Shirzad Mir. Jani Beg called them traitors, but Jani Beg—”

He waved his lean hand about the encircling camp of the Uzbeks and laughed shortly. Sir Ralph looked up quickly.

“If you respect them, why not send them food, raja?” he asked in a curious tone. “Is it the custom of the Rájputs first to starve a foe—”

“Shiva—no! The law reads, ‘When an enemy is weakened, tend him; take no advantage from his misfortune.’ ”

“Then,” said Sir Ralph gravely, “obey your law. Send grain to the men of Khanjut.”

The Rájput stared at him almost suspiciously. He had not for-gotten that the Englishman was the friend of Shirzad Mir.

“Nay, do it not if you have a fear, raja. But your chivalry would be recorded in the chronicles of your clan if you do this thing.”

The doubt vanished from Raja Man Singh’s boyish countenance.

“What matters it, Ferang?” he laughed. “Jani Beg will scowl, yet I have small cause to love him. Nay, I recall that I once pro-posed it and he growled. Tomorrow we will all pass under the gateway of Yama, to be born anew—hillman, Abdul Dost, Rájput and I—perchance yourself as well. Let their bellies be filled, so they may feel themselves men when they meet us—”

He turned away indifferently and gave an order to his captain of the imperial guard. The man disappeared with Raja Man Singh.

Presently the Rájput returned in somewhat better humor.

“The Persian spat in horror,” he informed his companion. “After all, it matters little to them. Rájputs will be in the van of the storm. It will be done. See—”

He pointed out where certain mules were being laden with sacks of grain, rice, and dates. This done, the beasts were led up over the trenches under a flag of truce.

Sir Ralph saw the provisions disappear into Khanjut.

The reckless chivalry of the Rájput had supplied the garrison with food. Pique, bred of Sir Ralph’s words and desire to annoy the Persians and Uzbeks, had been responsible for his act. As Raja Man Singh had said, it mattered little whether the hillmen in the citadel were fed before they were cut down.

Yet, as it proved, this move was of vital import. Sir Ralph had seen this, and he was pondering it while the two watched and the sun lowered its red ball over the smoke-veiled plain of Khanjut.

“It was well done,” admitted Raja Man Singh moodily. “I thank you for your word, Ferang. But how came you to think of such a matter of chivalry?”

Receiving no answer, he fell to watching the clearing away of the chevaux-de-frise preparatory to the assault of the next day. Festive murmurs reached the two from the red tent of Jahangir, where Shah Abbas was being feasted.

“How thought you of sending the food into Khanjut?” persisted the raja.

Sir Ralph sighed. He had been thinking deeply. “They are my friends,” he said.

The Rájput glanced at the silk bracelet on the Englishman’s wrist. His thin lips curled as he responded—

“And the ram rukhi, Ferang?”

“Krishna Taya trusted me.”

“Aye, she said you were a leader of men.”

Sir Ralph smiled grimly, feeling the cords which Raja Man Singh had thought best to keep upon him. The last mule had been lost to sight within the walls, which seemed bare of defenders. From the citadel he heard the long-drawn cry of a mullah, calling to evening prayers as shadows gathered to the East.

“Could you trust me, raja?”

“Wherefore? Yet you are a bold man, and frank. For Krishna Taya’s sake I have kept you with me. Still, the shield of your honor gleams bright compared to that of the false Persian. May he be born again as a female gully jackal—”

The Rájput spat, voicing his bitter resentment.

“Because,” Sir Ralph weighed his words with quickening pulse, “if you would trust me I could save you—and Jahangir.”

He had been pondering this for the last hour, silently, with the perseverance of an alert, steady-going mind. And now he was ready to put the matter to an issue.

The Rájput general sat close beside the Englishman, a single cloak forming a carpet for both. His teeth gleamed through his well-kept beard in a mocking laugh.

“Ho—that is a goodly jest! Bold words from a bound captive! So, you have a thought to wrest Jahangir and his Rájputs from

the trap of Jani Beg? Perchance you would arm the many-handed gods, and call them from the sacred abode of Himachal!”

Sir Ralph faced him patiently, knowing that the raja was worn with anxiety and that his opium no longer sufficed to keep his temper even.

“Tell me one thing,” he suggested quietly. “Has Jahangir begun to suspect his danger?”

“He grows uneasy. But the wily Persian surrounds him with talkative women and buffoons. Even me, his general, they keep from his side.”

“And the Dekkan army will arrive—”

“In time to bury our corpses that the kites have plucked bare.”

Raja Man Singh’s feverish eyes glowed with sudden fire.

“Death of the gods, Ferang, think you I feel nothing of what is to come to pass? I, the highest ameer of the court—head of the Marwar clan? Nay, just now one of my patrols came upon a dak-bearer of mine, slain in a by-path of the Koh-i-Baba. Some of my horsemen have vanished. The hand of Shah Abbas closes upon us.”

Veins stood out on his forehead, and his lips twisted in an access of rage. Sir Ralph had not known until then the strain under which the Rájput labored.

“By Hanuman and Ganesh! By Kali, mistress of blood! What can I do? It avails naught to attempt to cut through the Persian camp. By placing Jahangir on his elephant among my horsemen we could win through the camp. But—each pass to the South is fortified by our foes, and guarded. We would be cut to pieces in the Koh-i-Baba, even if ’twere possible to form in battle array unmolested by the Uzbeks and Persians—which I doubt.”

His voice had risen in snarling rage.

“We are trapped, Ferang. India will blame me—”

“You are not guilty of carelessness.”

“Who will believe? In the network of lies whispered after the death of the Mogul the name of Raja Man Singh will be linked with treachery.

“Eh—this place is foul with evil. Yet I am helpless. If Jani Beg suspected what I knew, the cup-bearer who hands Jahangir wine would plunge a poniard into the Mogul’s back! The creatures of the harem would drag him down, to be strangled—”

He waved his clenched hands before his closed eyes.

“The fate of India hangs upon the life of Jahangir, Ferang. It is the curse of India that she shall destroy herself, one clan fighting the other, if there be no leader.”

He broke off into curses that Sir Ralph barely understood.

“It was our fate that this should come upon us. Jahangir, half-drunk, perceives his peril, but falters, and drinks more to for-get. Aie—it will not be long before he drains the cup of death. For if a Rájput comes within earshot, a dozen hands fly to the courtiers’ daggers; if Jahangir steps without his tent, twenty pairs of evil eyes follow him and Shah Abbas bows himself up with new presents.”

Sir Ralph waited until the man’s outburst had ceased. It was now early evening, and the men of the camp below them were passing about to their meat. Khanjut was a wall of shadows. Lights twinkled out here and there among the tents.

“Have you any plan?” he asked thoughtfully.

“Who may outvie fate? Nay, I and my Rájputs shall spread a carpet of slain for the Lord of the Exalted Throne—if he must die.”

Rajah Man Singh was quieter now, cynical of the fortune in store for him.

“There is a way to save him—”

“It may not be.”

“—if the army of the Dekkan can win to Khanjut in three days. I do not think Jani Beg will look for reinforcements for Jahangir so early.”

He glanced about to make sure they were alone.

“Could the Rájputs from the Dekkan force the Persian guards in the Koh-i-Baba passes?”

“Can a mountain stream eat through a mud wall?” Raja Man Singh was contemptuous.

“Then Jahangir may be saved, and—the name of Raja Man Singh will be on the lips of every tribe in the empire.” “Nay, how can the Mogul escape?”

“He will not escape. Tomorrow he will watch the assault form against Khanjut.”

The Rájput was silent for a long space.

“Speak, Ferang,” he said moodily. “Krishna Taya said that you had a rare wisdom, of other gods than ours.”

While the evening activities of the camp went on and the watchfires gleamed forth in a circuit around the invested fortress, Sir Ralph told Raja Man Singh what was in his mind.

He talked with the earnestness of a man that has much at stake. He told his companion what he had reasoned out. And he told his plan.

Raja Man Singh listened, at first irritably and skeptically, then intently. He was a man of limitations, but the general of the Rájputs was far from stupid. He had been tricked, after a fashion, by Shah Abbas; yet his loyalty to Jahangir had helped to accomplish this.

He sucked his breath in through his teeth when Sir Ralph finished. He was silent for a long time.

“Verily,” he said softly, “that is a plan.”

In the darkness Sir Ralph had no means of reading the Rájput’s face.

“How may we get word of this to Jahangir, Ferang? He will doubt greatly, for he knows not all we know.”

“Tell him naught. He is half-dazed with opium. You alone must lead in this, raja.”

Again the Rájput was quiet, faced by the necessity of a vital decision.

“The mahouts of the imperial elephants are men of Marwar and Oudh,” he meditated aloud. “They will listen to my words—

aye, they will obey me. Am I not leader of their clan? They are but servants.”

“You must be leader.”

“Shall I take the reins of India into my hand?”

The Rájput clapped his hands softly and laughed.

“Verily it is a plan of plans. If we should succeed—” He broke off swiftly.

“How am I to trust you, Ferang? I have not forgotten there is a part you must play—”

“You cannot be sure of me,” said Sir Ralph steadily. “But if the word of an adventurer. . . Krishna Taya is the only one who believes in me,” he concluded grimly.

“A slender staff to lean on, Ferang. Yet Udai Singh spoke well of you. You have taken the ram rukhi of my clan—”

He sprang to his feet abruptly, laughing. “Ho, Ferang, I shall do this thing. As you have told it to me, I shall do it.” He loved action ever better than thought.

“If it comes to pass as you have thought, Ferang, it will be verily a jest for the gods and a thing like to none other in the annals of the Rájputs.”

It was then dark. Before the second watch of that night was ended, Sir Ralph had passed with a small party of Rájputs to a certain valley near the Amu Daria—a gorge whence the river of Khanjut flowed down.

He was unbound, and when he stepped into the stream and swam out into the current toward Khanjut the Rájputs made no attempt to stay him. Sir Ralph had prevailed upon Raja Man Singh. He had secured his freedom from the custody of the Rájputs.

And now, he, reflected, as he sought for the watercourse that led under the Khanjut wall, he might obtain that for which he came to India.

There was no flaw in the scheme of Jani Beg and Shah Abbas—no break in the net that had been thrown around Jahangir.

Dawn showed the squadrons of Uzbek cavalry drawn up on one side of the Mogul’s camp, with the Persians on the other. Behind the camp the plain seemed to have filled suddenly as the waiting battalions from the North emerged from their nullahs and closed in toward Khanjut. If Jahangir had doubted before, he was more than anxious now.

But he was allowed no opportunity to consult with Raja Man Singh. Jani Beg did not wish to strike until the Rájputs had been thrown against Khanjut, and the sharp edge of their attack dulled. So he escorted Jahangir in person to the waiting elephants, where they feasted briefly and drank under a temporary pavilion erected for that purpose.

Wine had little effect upon the Uzbek leader. But it dulled the faculties of the anxious monarch.

“Lord of the Exalted Throne—” Jani Beg bowed to hide his exultation and the suspense he could not altogether keep from his scarred face—“the storm is prepared, and the mines await but your auspicious word before they hurl the ramparts of Khanjut into the air.”

“Where is Raja Man Singh?” demanded Jahangir uneasily. “With his Rájputs yonder.”

Jani Beg pointed to where the Mogul’s horsemen had formed directly in front of and beside the royal elephants.

“All goes well,” he cried exultingly. “Mount, sire, and view from the back of your elephant the spectacle we have prepared for you.”

“Mount, sire,” echoed Shah Abbas suavely, “and give the word that shall crush the rebel of Khanjut as a snake’s head is crushed.”

Both the traitors wished the Mogul to be upon his beast, so that he could not by any chance escape in the throng. Once installed in the gilded howdah, behind the armored head of the royal elephant, every move of Jahangir would be clear to view and descent from his elevation would be difficult.

Jani Beg whirled his horse away and Jahangir sat alone with a mahout in his accustomed station.

Around him formed a half-dozen of the royal beasts, bearing Rájput ameers and Muslims of his personal following. But Raja Man Singh, the general who might—so Jahangir in his anxiety reasoned—take command and offset the treachery he had begun to dread, was not to be seen.

And Raja Man Singh was the one man who could enforce an order among the Mogul’s followers. Jahangir himself was no warrior—he scarce knew how to phrase an order in the heat of battle.

From his elevation he could see that the Hazaras and Afridis who should have held the other side of the fortress had formed behind his own camp. In fact, the whole of the Uzbek and Persian troops were now in a semicircle about Jahangir and Khanjut.

The Rájputs, aroused as always by the prospect of action, were intent on their own counsels, ameer whispering to mansabdar and mansabdar to troopers.

It was a glorious sight, gray Khanjut ringed about by its foes under the clear sunlight of Afghanistan. In the distance, the snow peaks of the Himalayas frowned down on the mass of fighting men, ready to be launched into conflict. On the walls few of the garrison showed.

Shah Abbas signed for his men to draw closer to the Rájputs around the elephants. True, the Mogul’s followers were but one in ten, yet—Shah Abbas was wary.

He reined his Arab near the royal elephant. “Give the word, sire,” he cried, gnawing hard at a lip that quivered in spite of his self-mastery.

“Give the word, sire,” repeated blue-robed Persian councilors, their eyes hard with greed and cruelty, bred of what was to come. Jahangir cast a look around, seeking for Raja Man Singh, who was not to be seen. Then he raised his hand. This was the signal. The Mogul’s jeweled hand trembled, for a great fear had touched his placid heart.

The royal nacars—kettledrums—sounded a long roll. From the midst of a group of Rájputs the imperial yak-tail standard was

raised high for all to see. A roar burst from a battery of brass camel-guns beside the red tent.

From the entrance to the saps the figures of miners scrambled. They joined the ranks of the Persians and waited. Throughout the watching host the warriors shifted their swords and pikes in their hands, tightened their girdles, and breathed prayers in many tongues and faiths. The leaders, on horseback, watched the walls of Khanjut.

A dull, gigantic thud, a quiver of earth underfoot, and a black cloud rose and swelled about the walls. A second roar, and both mines had exploded. Stones, earth, and beams tossed skyward in the murk. Dust rose in a dense cloud.

The engineers of Shah Abbas had done their work well. The celebrated Persian smiled and recited a verse in poetic gratulation. He missed the sight of bodies of the garrison hurled into the air, but—the storm was launched.

As a man the Rájputs sprang forward afoot.

“Ho—níla ghora ki aswár!”

Their battle-cry answered the tumult of trumpet and cymbals that echoed in the Persian camp. Shah Abbas saw the lines of saffron-robed warriors climb up the debris-strewn slope to where, under the dust cloud, a wide breach had been blown in the wall.

They scrambled upward at a swift trot, scimitars swinging free. The first ranks vanished in the dust cloud.

“To their fate they go like driven dogs, exalted Majesty,” fawned a Persian master of horse at his side.

“’Tis well to have them out of the way,” he responded softly.

The excitement had affected the elephants. The black beasts, brilliant in their paint and armor, stirred under the spears of their mahouts. They moved forward at first slowly, then with gathering momentum.

On either side of the royal elephants, the squadrons of Muslim archers and Rájputs moved upward with drawn weapons. On their flank the waiting ranks of Uzbeks stared and mocked.

The gold howdah of Jahangir glittered in the sun as it went forward.

“He goes to gain better sight of the storm,” meditated Shah Abbas aloud, paying little heed to the elephants, so intent was he in watching the walls.

But the elephants did not stop. Nor did the mahouts cease to urge them onward. The beasts, trained to war, trumpeted, feeling the nearness of strife. Shah Abbas dispatched his master of horse to bring up his waiting ranks.

“Close in after the Mogul,” he whispered shrilly. “But slowly, slowly. Jahangir was unwise to venture into the battle. Under the walls we will swarm against him and his thin following, and he will be beset from two sides—”

So he watched complacently while the royal howdah bobbed upward along the slope leading to the breach. In the midst of his followers the Mogul neared the Khanjut wall.

A rider came from Jani Beg.

“Sire,” he cried to Shah Abbas, “the Mogul must seek to force the breach with his elephants.”

“The gods favor us,” muttered the Persian. “Jahangir will die in the breach by an Uzbek sword.”

There was something strange in the silence of the assault. While Persian and Uzbek watched, the Rájputs leaped within the walls. Still no defenders were to be seen. Silence reigned along the Khanjut wall.

“Death of the gods!” swore Shah Abbas.

He reasoned that the garrison must have erected a barrier farther within the citadel. Assuredly, he thought, they had known the position of the mines, or someone had given them this knowledge. For none of the hillmen were caught in the explosion.

The Uzbek banners stirred uneasily. Shah Abbas could see the breach plainly, now that the dust had subsided.

And what he saw amazed him. The ranks of the Rájputs were filing through the gap unopposed. No arrows were shot from the walls at the oncoming elephants.

He had thought to see stones and fire hurled upon the van of the attack, and bales of lighted pitch rolled against the dangerous elephants. But not one of the garrison was to be seen. Not an arrow glinted in the sunlight.

Now, as had been planned, the ranks of Uzbeks moved forward, on the heels of the Mogul’s following.

“Something’s amiss,” snarled Shah Abbas to those near him.

He could not take his gaze from the royal elephant. That great beast was urging forward, diagonally up the slope, as fast as the mahout could force him to go. The gold howdah rocked perilously. But it was now in the breach.

And still not a shot had been fired or a spear lifted against the Rájputs.

“Forward,” cried Shah Abbas. “Gain the Mogul! May the gods destroy—”

The Persians closed in behind the Uzbeks.

Then the mellow eyes of Shah Abbas widened, and he and his men halted in astonishment. The howdah of Jahangir bearing its precious load had passed within the breach, like a ship entering the sheltering wings of a harbor. It turned to one side, and was lost to view.

Simultaneously the aroused ranks of Uzbeks plunged after it. At once the rear ranks of the Mogul’s men turned in their tracks. Rájput horsemen spurred down upon the Uzbeks, casting them back. Jani Beg spurred forward furiously.

A line of Mogul spearmen formed athwart the breach. Through their dressed spears the horsemen of the rear guard trotted safely after their sally. The Uzbeks, who had sought to fall upon an unguarded rear, were faced by a ring of steel.”

And now the hillmen appeared on the walls. Arrow flights sped into the confused ranks of Uzbeks. Muskets barked, and fireballs were flung from the half-demolished battlements.

Then Shah Abbas and Jani Beg saw the yak-tail standard of Jahangir raised on the walls.

They heard the battle shout of triumphant Rájputs. And they knew that, while they had watched passively, Jahangir had passed safely into Khanjut and now held the citadel against them.

Those who were first of the Rájputs into Khanjut saw a strange sight. Passing warily through the smoke, scimitar in hand, and climbing over the debris upheaved by the mine, they beheld safely removed from the area of the explosion groups of tattered men. These hillmen were like to remnants of warriors, for their armor was broken and oddly pieced out, with helmets and targets taken from the dead. They were hollow-eyed and scarred. They leaned wearily upon spear and pike, with bows dangling in their hands.

Beside these silent watchers were ranged piles of brush and sacks of earth, ready to form a barrier within the breach. Yet the barrier had not been put in place.

The Rájputs had their orders not to lift weapon against the defenders of Khanjut. Even so, with the care of veterans they advanced distrustfully. Perhaps they would have been loath to enter the silent breach save for the presence of Raja Man Singh in the first ranks.

Intrigue and rumors in the camp they had left had bewildered them. But the word and the face of the Rájput general was a beacon to their loyalty, and they followed him steadily, peering at the battle-worn groups that loomed out of the murk.

In the foremost group three men waited. There was bent Iskander Khan, leader of the hill Kirghiz, and tall, battle-stained Abdul Dost, worn to a lean semblance of a warrior; and there was a steady-eyed man with tawny hair who rested on along, bare blade and smiled at the raja.

Seeing this, the Rájputs advanced more readily.

“Sir Ralph,” they whispered among themselves. “The Ferang has come before us as the raja said. Even as he promised, the way has been cleared. And he has said there will be good sword strokes presently. He told us that we who were of the besiegers should be besieged. And his lips give forth the truth.”

Whereupon, obeying a sign from their leader, they spread to either side along the ramparts, making way for those who pressed after them.

“The royal standard follows,” they whispered, eyeing the assembled rocks and bundles of arrows with the keen appraisal of veterans. “This is a strange thing—and the fortress is but a ruin— yet Jahangir will join us.”

With the acute curiosity of alert soldiers they watched Raja Man Singh advance alone to Abdul Dost, who stopped to meet him. For that instant Rájput and hillman fingered weapons distrustfully, uncertain of the outcome of the meeting. But they saw the raja and mansabdar salute each other and join Sir Ralph.

“It is said the Ferang swam down the river, through the water-main into the well of Khanjut,” they informed one another. “Raja Man Singh trusted to his good faith that we should not be molested. Even so has it come to pass.”

Satisfied that all was well, they fell to repairing the defenses. Trumpeting announced the coming of the elephants through the breach. Abdul Dost watched, grim eyed.

“Welcome to Khanjut, raja,” he growled

“Jahangir was long in seeing the truth—that we of Khanjut are faithful to the Mogul, while Jani Beg is the traitor.”

The Rájput scowled; then his brow cleared.

“The Mogul makes amends for his mistake, Abdul Dost.” “Too late.”

“Nay, my men are fresh. We have food for two days, and in two days the van of the Dekkan army will strike through the passes.”

“Too late, I said. And it is the truth. God has laid a heavy hand upon Khanjut. When you seek my master, Shirzad Mir, you will know whereof I speak.”

With that he turned away, giving orders to his men, who staggered as they trundled the trees of the barrier into place.

Through the breach passed the elephants with the Mogul and his ameers. Tumult and trampling of horses echoed without as

the Rájputs turned against the oncoming Uzbeks. Raja Man Singh seized the royal standard and hurried to the wall.

Sir Ralph accompanied him as the last of the elephants passed the fresh-forming barrier.

Without, they saw the Rájput pike-wall, and beyond this the climbing masses of their enemies. The horse of Jani Beg was close to the spear-wall.

“Yield Jahangir, raja,” cried the Uzbek angrily. “What means this treachery? Ho—the Mogul is betrayed!”

“No lie, that, Jani Beg,” retorted the Rájput scornfully. “You are the traitor, not I, nor Shirzad Mir. The Mogul holds Khanjut. If you seek peace, even now, go hence to your northern steppe.”

The Uzbek flushed darkly, then took heart from sight of his numerous followers. “Yield Jahangir and tie the sword of surrender about your neck, raja. This is my last word.”

“When has a Rájput yielded? We guard Jahangir.”

“Then it is war—and the fate of war for those in Khanjut.” “Nay—” the Rájput laughed grimly—“would you harm the Mogul?”

Jani Beg hesitated. But behind him were many thousand disciplined Uzbeks, Persians and plainsmen. His was still the upper hand, and he was not the man to let bloodshed stand in the way of his ambition.

“Let Jahangir look to himself, for his name will soon be as dust on gravel!” he cried, drawing his scimitar. “The star of Jani Beg rises over Hindustan. War!”

He shouted at his men. A score of arrows flew past the raja and Sir Ralph. With a cry the Uzbeks pressed forward. Muskets flashed from wall and trenches. The ominous thunder of battle rolled around Khanjut.

Almost Jani Beg held the prize he sought in his grasp. His mail-clad ranks clashed against the Rájput spear-wall. Raja Man Singh sprang down among his men, leaving the defense of the battlements to Abdul Dost and Sir Ralph.

The breach was filled in a moment with a mass of struggling men. Rájput faced Uzbek; scimitar grated against pike. The few horsemen who attempted to stem the wave of attackers were pulled down and slain.

But now arrows and rocks made gaps in the Uzbeks. Abdul Dost posted his men where the scaling ladders rose against the damaged ramparts.

For a space the storm swept against Khanjut, mingling assailant and defender in a swaying mass. Meanwhile the old men and boys of Khanjut labored at the barrier within the breach.

Raja Man Singh glanced behind him and waved his hard-pressed men to either side of the opening in the wall. He had seen the elephants of the Mogul form in a monstrous line and advance to the breach.

Not alone was Jahangir now in the howdah. A group of dark-faced Muslim archers knelt beside him and plied their small bows swiftly. In the other howdahs the ameers were likewise rein-forced.

“The Mogul!” cried the hard-breathing Rájputs. “Jahangir comes. Way for the imperial elephants.”

No coward was Jahangir when it came to an issue. Sight of the battered garrison that fought for him had stirred his placid heart. And his father Jalal-Ud-Din Akbar had sat upon the back of a chained elephant in the pitched battle that had won him mastery of India.

“The Mogul!” cried his men as the gold-plated head of a swaying elephant with armored shoulders and sword-tipped tusks forged into view.

The trained beasts lined the breach, trumpeting with the fury of battle, and the Uzbeks gave ground down the slope. Persian horsemen pressed up to aid them. But from the backs of the elephants flooded a steady stream of arrows from chosen archers. And from the walls above them came the missiles of the heartened garrison.

“God’s love!” swore Sir Ralph. “Here is a worthy onset!”

With that he leaped down among the Rájputs and called together a group that followed his long sword into the battle around the elephants.

The foot soldiers under the Englishman arrived in good time, for they diverted the attention of the Persian horsemen from the elephants after one or two of the giant beasts had become infuriated with wounds and dashed down the slope, trampling their assailants underfoot and plunging the men on their backs head-long to death.

On difficult footing, and harassed by the arrows from above, the Persians were forced to give ground. They drew back to allow Jani Beg to form a fresh assault, driving his savage Uzbeks into the breach.

Raja Man Singh, who had watched coolly all that passed, urged back the mahouts of the royal elephants and the remaining men under Sir Ralph.

“Form behind the barrier,” he cried. “It is near completed and will be closed when you are through!”

So when Jani Beg’s second storm swept into the breach it was met by a flaming wall of cotton bales coated with pitch, behind which stood an orderly array of the Mogul’s men, fresh because they had not yet been in the fight.

It was near evening when Jani Beg, twice unhorsed by arrows from the walls, called off his baffled men and left the breach still in the hands of its defenders. Not until then did Jahangir cause his mahout to make his elephant kneel.

The Mogul dismounted stiffly and advanced to where Abdul Dost and Sir Ralph waited. The mansabdar bent his head, and the Englishman swept off his helmet in a bow.

“Take me, Abdul Dost,” said Jahangir quietly, “to your master, Shirzad Mir. I would tell him with my own lips that he has been a faithful servant of the Mogul.”

“You wronged my master,” said the mansabdar fiercely.

“How was I to know?” Jahangir’s handsome face was troubled, for his vanity had suffered in the past hours. “Treasure and honors will atone for my mistake. I pardon freely the pride that gave him the semblance of a—of one who defied me.”

“Come, then, and pardon if you will.”

So saying, Abdul Dost turned and led the two into the tower that formed the abode of Shirzad Mir.

It was empty of attendants, and dark save for a candle that winked in the wind from open embrasures. The couch that had formed the bed of Shirzad Mir had been removed. His scimitar and armor lay on a long table.

Jahangir paused and looked around expectantly.

“Summon the mir,” he said impatiently.

Abdul Dost smiled.

“That I cannot do,” he responded. “I buried my master under the floor of this chamber two moons ago.”

Jahangir stared down at the stone flags under the table, and at the guttering candle. He looked at Abdul Dost, and at Sir Ralph. “So Shirzad Mir was slain?” he asked curiously.

“Aye—by a sword stroke of Raja Man Singh, who warred against him, by your order.”

This time Jahangir did not speak. He stirred uneasily, for the level gaze of the wearied soldier oppressed him and he liked not to be uneasy.

“Shirzad Mir—” Sir Ralph broke the silence—“was faithful to you, as to your father, Akbar the Great.”

At length Jahangir threw off the spell of discomfort that had gripped him. He spoke impulsively, with his customary generosity.

“You have been a faithful man, Abdul Dost,” he said kindly, “and you shall have due reward as such. I shall grant you rank of a lesser ameer, with a jagir in Guzurat, and two hundred good horses. Come, this is a sad place. You shall dine at my side this night.”

“Nay,” said the mansabdar. “My place is here.”

So that night while Sir Ralph and Raja Man Singh in turn took command of the guard, and Jahangir feasted late in a pavilion that had been erected for him and listened to a Muslim poet extol his bravery of that afternoon, Abdul Dost squatted on the stone floor of the tower repeating prayers at the appointed hour, and facing toward Mecca.

For the next day and night and part of the following day, the storm swept against Khanjut.

The powder of the defenders was exhausted and the greater number of the elephants rendered useless. But Raja Man Singh was skilled in fortress warfare, and his Rájputs, aided by the survivors of Abdul Dost’s force, fought desperately.

The Persian cannon had resumed their play against the battered ramparts. Fresh levies were formed for each assault. Trenches and ramparts were half-obliterated in the mass fighting that cast Uzbek against Afghan, Persian against Muslim, and Hazara against Rájput.

When Abdul Dost was wounded, he had himself conveyed to the summit of the remaining tower, and Sir Ralph took over the command of his men. Iskander Khan, the graybeard of the Kohi-Baba, had died of an arrow the second day. The royal ameers presented little better appearance than the tattered soldiery.

It was then that Jani Beg, believing that the citadel was doomed, ordered the last assault. It is written in the annals of Afghanistan that he led this himself.

The wave of Uzbeks broke through the new breach made by the Persian cannon and swept around the tower whence Abdul Dost watched silently.

Then from the base of the tower issued a strange throng— graybeards and boys bearing arms that they had picked up from the slain.

“Shirzad el kadr!”

They shrilled the war-cry of their dead lord and plunged into the ranks of the northern swordsmen. They were singled out and

slain, one by one, for the name of mercy had been forgotten in the struggle around Khanjut.

Sir Ralph, who had drawn aside to gather his strength, saw Jani Beg pushing toward the tower, and went to meet him with grim intentness.

The attackers had been driven back to the breach by the Khan-jut townspeople. And it was here that the Englishman took his stand between two piles of stones.

“Come, Jani Beg,” he called. “This is the way into Khanjut!”

He was weary and reckless with the ceaseless strife. The Uzbek hesitated. But his men had heard, and turned toward him. Seeing this, Jani Beg knew that he could not afford to draw back.

“Eh, Ferang,” he growled, “your body will not stay me!”

He leaped forward, scimitar swinging overhead. His curved blade met the Englishman’s long sword. Sir Ralph thrust strongly, using his point against the other’s edge. And as he thrust he forced back Jani Beg.

Both men were tired, and their weapons, which had clashed sharply at first, moved more slowly. Once Sir Ralph’s point struck and bent against the mail armor of the Uzbek’s broad chest. His gaze held the other’s furious stare steadily.

It seemed to him that the noise of battle about them dwindled as they fought. He was very tired.

The Uzbek fenced cunningly, guarding his vulnerable throat above the mail. His scimitar bit into the leather vest of the Englishman and drew blood. He drew back farther, smiling as Sir Ralph came on steadily.

Sir Ralph’s long sword weighed heavily in his hand, and a blur passed across his sight. The cut in his shoulder troubled him. And still Jani Beg stepped back until he was close to his own followers.

A thrust of the long sword, a parry of the scimitar—and Jani Beg leaped clear of the Englishman’s reach. Sir Ralph swayed, his knees quivering with fatigue. Jani Beg laughed, brushing the foam from his mouth.

“Slay him!” he panted to his men, who had watched irresolutely. “The Ferang is wearied and there are none to defend his back. Strike and slay—”

The Uzbeks stepped forward while Sir Ralph lifted his blade weakly. Jani Beg watched sneeringly. Then his great frame stiffened and his arms thrust out with a stifled screech.

The feathered end of an arrow projected under his chin. The Uzbek clawed at it wildly. He sank to his knees, gripping the shaft, blood running from his mouth.

“’Twas a goodly shot,” said a voice calmly.

Glancing up at the sound, Sir Ralph saw Abdul Dost leaning against the battlement of the tower directly overhead. A bow was in his hand.

“Harken!”

The mansabdar raised his hand. Then Sir Ralph knew that a silence had indeed fallen over Khanjut and the men that stood within it.

In the distance below the citadel he heard a shout.

“Ho—níla ghora ki aswár!”

The Uzbeks heard and straightaway turned to run from the breach. Sir Ralph leaned on his weapon, wondering, for his senses were dulled with the conflict.

“The Rájput war-cry,” he said.

“Aye,” nodded Abdul Dost. “The Rájputs. In the plain their cavalry has deployed from the passes of the Koh-i-Baba. Their standards are those of the army of the Dekkan.”

Sir Ralph was slow to comprehend this.

“I have been watching them for the space milk takes to boil— while you were engaged with the carrion that was Jani Beg.” The Englishman straightened with a laugh.

“What of the Persians?” he asked.

Abdul Dost cast an indifferent scrutiny over the plain.

“The Persians draw rein for Persia,” he said grimly. “I think Shah Abbas leads them. He has the best horse.”

It was not long after this that Sir Ralph said farewell to Krishna Taya in the hill gardens of Kabul, at the festival attending Jahangir’s departure for the court at Delhi. His tent was near to that of Raja Man Singh, and here he found Krishna Taya waiting when he returned from his leave-taking at the Mogul’s pavilion.

It was in the afternoon when few people were stirring, and the garden was quiet. This was the first time that the Englishman had seen the Rájput girl alone since the night of her ride to the Dekkan army.

“It is a fair day,” she said softly, “when I see a smile upon the face of my lord. Jahangir is liberal with those who have won his favor. It is said that you have earned his good will—”

“For a time, Krishna Taya,” he nodded, “my enemies are silenced. But I cannot afford to overstay my time.”

“The slaves said today,” the girl resumed wistfully, “that you received rich presents. They talked of high rank bestowed upon you, and treasure, and a jagir on the Guzurat coast, not far from Marwar—”

“Nay, I took it not. Instead I asked Jahangir for this.” Sir Ralph drew a folded paper from his tunic.

“It is the firman, Krishna Taya,” he explained as she looked to him for an answer. “The trade concession for my country from the Mogul.”

She turned her dark head aside.

“Then—you will not take the title and land of Guzurat, my lord?”

“Nay.”

“It was said also that you might leave Hindustan.”

“Aye. My work takes me to England, and those who sent me.” She sighed, resting her slender chin on clasped hands. She looked at him curiously.

“You still wear the ram rukhi, Sir Ralph. Has it served you— brought you happiness? The gods have smiled upon you since you took it.”

He removed the silk bangle from his wrist cheerfully and handed it to the girl.

“My thanks, Krishna Taya. It has been a boon to me. Without it, I might not have gained the firman.”

With that Sir Ralph stooped and raised her hand to his lips. The girl quivered under his touch, and her eyes closed. Her lips framed a word she did not speak.

“You are content, my lord?”

“Aye, Krishna Taya.”

He stared at her in some surprise. Surely the girl was changed from the willful mistress of the Rájputs who had made him prisoner some months ago. She was very lovely, after her fashion, and he owed her much. She bent her dark head so that he could not look into her eyes.

“Your country and mine, Krishna Taya,” he said, seeking to break the silence, “will no longer be apart.”

“But you will not come back, Sir Ralph?”

“Another ameer of the sea will come.”

He looked around at the rose-garden, now bare of flowers, and even to his blunt senses the place held a witchery that caused him some vague regret.

“I have seen much of India, and I have learned much of her people, Krishna Taya. I have known the loyalty of the Rájputs.”

Krishna Taya smiled ever so slightly and stroked the silk bracelet on her wrist.

“So much, my lord? I—I also have known—much.”

At loss for further words Sir Ralph bent again and kissed her hand. Then he strode away past the tent, while she looked after him wistfully.

Seeing that he would not come back, she rose and went into the garden. There against a stone gate of a well she sat, chin on hand, while the sunlight dwindled to the twilight.

Came long-striding Raja Man Singh, swaggering after his wont, in elegant attire, his beard new-trimmed and redolent of musk.

“Ho, Krishna Taya,” he cried carelessly, “I have seen your bracelet brother leave with the caravan that goes overland to the northern sea. He was a brave man and I have thought that the ram rukhi was not ill bestowed upon him.”

“Aye, my lord,” she said.

“And you, little Krishna Taya,” he added, for he was in high good humor with the events of recent days, “what think you?” “The ram rukhi was well given.”

Whereupon the raja departed about his business, leaving Krishna Taya staring wistfully out over the darkened garden, and holding close to her breast the hand that wore the bracelet.