In the temples are the many-handed gods. High is the wisdom of the gods.

Is the wisdom of the gods one with Fate? Nay, how can it be known?

And in the palace is the face of a woman. There is perfume in her heavy hair, and the eyes of the maiden are dark, as with sleep. Her hand is small as a lotus blossom.

Yet in her petal-hand is the destiny of a man, of many men. The gods have ordained it, and it is true.

Khlit, called by his enemies the Cossack of the Curved Saber, was followed.

He was aware of this. It caused him no uneasiness. For, he thought, if a rider carries nothing of value, should he fear thieves? He was not less watchful, however, on that account. It was the Year of the Rat, reckoned by the Chinese calendar—in the first decade of the seventeenth century of the Christian Era—and the border of the desert of Gobi was a refuge of the lawless.

From time to time the Cossack reined in his horse and glanced backward over the wind ridges which formed an ocean of sand on three sides of the rider. On the fourth was the river Tarim. This Khlit was following, having heard that it would take him from the desert to the southern mountains. Beyond these mountains, he had been told by wandering priests, was the fair land of Ladak and Ind.

Wise in the ways of warfare and plunder, the old Cossack knew that only one rider followed him. Save for this half-perceived shadow that clung to his path, Khlit was alone. Such was his custom. Years since he had ridden from the war camp of the Cossacks—an outcast.

Now, disgusted with the silken treachery of the men of China, whither he had come from Tatary, the warrior had taken up his journey in a new direction, south. A veteran of many battles, impatient of authority, his shrewdness, enforced by very expert swordplay, had safeguarded him in a time when men’s lives hung by slender threads. And had earned him enemies in plenty.

As he guided his mount beside the riverbank Khlit meditated. Why should one rider follow him? It was clearly to be seen that he carried no goods worthy of plunder. Merely some handfuls of dried meat and milk curds in his saddlebags. Even his horse was not one to be coveted by a desert-man, being a shaggy steppe pony.

Perhaps the rider in his rear planned to wait until he dismounted at nightfall, slay him, and take the horse. Yet it was not the custom of the Gobi bandits to hunt their prey alone.

Down a steep clay bank his pony slid, pursuing the half-visible caravan track marked by dried bones and camel droppings. At the bottom of the slope, beside a stunted tamarisk, Khlit halted and faced about, drawing a pistol and adjusting the priming. He would see, he decided, what manner of man followed him.

Quietly the Cossack waited, his tall form upright in the saddle, sheepskin svitza thrown back to allow free arm play. His keen eyes peered under tufted brows at the summit of the mound down which he had come, searching the skyline.

The stillness of the place was unbroken. The sluggish river moving through the waste was lifeless. There were no birds or game in the region. Even the warmth of a Summer sun was seasoned by the high altitude of the southern Gobi.

The horse pricked up his ears. Khlit lifted his weapon and scowled. By now the other rider must be near. His sharp ears had caught the impact of a stone dislodged from a nearby ridge.

Back and forth along the ridge summit his glance flickered. There was no sign of movement. A second sound arrested his attention. It was faint, coming from no definite direction. It was a low, whispering laugh.

The sound came from the stillness around him, softly mocking, almost caressing. It was a tiny sound, akin to the drip of sand. It might have issued from the ground under his feet. Then he heard a brief, dull mutter, as of a sword drawn from a rusted scabbard.

Still Khlit waited, impassive. His horse seemed to have lost interest in what was passing near at hand. In fact, Khlit himself was not oversure the sounds had not been a trick of the imagination.

With a stifled oath he swerved his mount and spurred up the ridge, his weapon ready in his free hand. His pursuer, apparently, had sighted him and turned back. The pony dug his leather-shod hoofs valiantly into the sand, which afforded evil footing, and gained the summit panting.

Khlit cast a quick glance over the plain. Nothing was to be seen of the other rider. True, the depressions between the ridges might shelter the other. But the scattered tamarisks and forlorn bushes by the river offered no concealment. Khlit was standing on the edge of the bank some hundred feet above the water, and the thickets in the region whence he had come were clear to view.

He looked down thoughtfully at his horse’s tracks, outlined along the caravan trail. Then he swore aloud.

“Dog of the devil!” he grunted.

Beside his own tracks were those of another horse. They came within a yard of where he was, then ceased.

Khlit searched the summit of the ridge carefully. There was no mistaking the message in the sand. A second horse, making small, clearly indented tracks, had walked nearly to the crest of the sand. It had not returned, for there were no traces leading rearward. Nor had it passed him—his own eyes had been witness to that.

The Cossack replaced the pistol in his belt and tugged at his heavy mustache. The sounds might have been his imagining. Certainly the soft laugh had startled him. But the hoof prints were not fancy.

Khlit thought briefly of the tales he had heard from the gylongs —wandering beggar priests of Buddha—concerning the Ghils of the desert. These were spirits which followed the course of travelers, appearing beside them in the shape of men and luring them to destruction.

Woman’s tales, he reflected, and not to be believed. The priests had warned him against the shrill cries of the Ghils heard at night. But he was familiar with the strange noises the sands make at times, similar to the sound of drums or horse’s hoofs.

The priests, he reasoned, would no doubt say that he had been followed by one of the spirits of the desert, which took flight into the air when he observed it. Khlit scowled at the tracks in the sand.

Undoubtedly another horse had come to the sand ridge. Since it was not to be seen, it had left. But where, and how?

Khlit laughed, a gruff hearty laugh, and slapped his thigh. Then he dug spurs into the pony’s sides and as the animal sprang for-ward jerked the beast’s head to one side. Down the embankment of sand into the river went pony and rider.

II

“Ho, one-without-sense!” growled Khlit as the pony struggled in the current of the Tarim. “Do you fear to do what another has done? Nay, we go not back here.”

The thought had come to Khlit, standing on the ridge, of how the other rider had vanished. Only one way was possible—into the river. And a slope of loose sand, as the Cossack knew, left no tracks.

He guided his pony down the current in the direction he had been going. This way the other must have gone. Or Khlit would have seen the rider as he searched the riverbank to the rear. Clearly his companion of the desert path was anxious to pass him by rather than meet him. This stirred Khlit’s curiosity the more.

As he crouched in the saddle, Cossack fashion, he scanned the shore keenly. His pursuer, he thought, must have been anxious to press ahead. And to escape observation. Otherwise the rider would have passed him by along the sand ridges instead of choosing the river. Of course, to do so would render the other visible to Khlit. Hence the leap into the Tarim.

Who, wondered Khlit, rode the caravan track alone and in haste, yet in fear of observation?

With difficulty Khlit kept the pony’s head away from the bank. The water, in spite of the hot rays of the sun, was cold and torpid, winding between its banks with the silence of a huge reptile passing over the barren waste of the desert. A cold wind stirred the sand on the ridges and fanned Khlit’s beard.

The Cossack presently gave an exclamation of satisfaction and headed for the bank. He had seen the tracks of a horse leading up the slope. Dark water stains showed that the horse and rider he was following had but recently passed that way. He had guessed correctly the maneuver of his erstwhile pursuer.

He urged his pony into a quick trot, following the traces in the sand. Before long he was convinced that the other’s mount was fleet of foot, for he gained no sight of rider or beast, urge his horse as he would.

He saw only that the rider had returned to the caravan track. The sun, which had been low on the plain to the west, disappeared suddenly. The sky overhead changed from a clear blue to a dull purple. Khlit reined in his pony and dismounted.

Warmth, gathered during the day, was still exuding from the sand, but the Cossack knew that the night would be chill. He picketed his beast in the depression between two sand mounds, collected a bundle of tamarisk roots and kindled a small fire.

He placed his leather saddle-cloth between the sand slope and the fire and seated himself thereon with his saddlebags, preparatory to making a meal of dried meat. The other rider, he thought, would not molest him, judging by what had happened at the river.

Khlit lay back on his heavy coat, gazing up into the purple infinity overhead. One by one the stars were glittering into being. Khlit knew them all. He had followed their guidance over the Roof of the World into strange countries. Unlike most men, he was best contented when alone. His few companions in arms had been slain, and as for women, the Cossack regarded them as rather more troublesome than magpies or the inquisitive and predatory steppe fox.

The next instant he was on his feet, sword drawn, limbs taut and head sunk forward between his shoulders. A horse and rider had moved into the circle of firelight.

Khlit’s first glance made sure that the intruder held no pistol. His second, that no weapons at all were visible. Nevertheless, he did not lower his sword. He had seen death reward imprudence too often.

And then he heard the echo of the soft laugh that had startled him by the river bank. Peering at the newcomer, he grunted. It was a woman, clad in a fur-tipped khalat, under which a silk shawl was wrapped over head and breast. Over a veil which shielded the lower half of her face two dark eyes scanned him calmly. Black hair of shimmering texture, evenly divided, crowned a high, fair forehead.

So much Khlit observed in surprise. He noted that the horse was a mettled gray stallion and the saddle trappings costly.

The rider of the horse spoke in a limpid tongue unknown to Khlit. Then Khlit sheathed his sword.

“Nay, I know not your song, little night-bird,” he said in Uigur, the semi-Turkish dialect of Central Asia. “Devil take me—I knew not the great desert breeds such as you.”

The dark eyes snapped angrily.

“What matters your knowledge, O small-of-wit?” the rider lisped in the same tongue. “Among my people a gray horse is a sigil of wisdom. Here I find it on the mouth of a fool.”

Khlit considered the woman in surprise. By the shifting fire-light she appeared beautiful of face. Certainly her figure under

the khalat was rounded and slim. What was such a maiden doing alone on the desert? True, they were not two days’ ride from the city of Khoten; but the caravan tracks were peopled with scoundrels, and Khoten itself was a rendezvous for the lawless of all nations.

Moreover, the woman puzzled him. She was not Chinese; her beauty was too great for a Khirghiz or flat-faced Usbek. Her dress and imperious manner were not those of a Turk.

She leaned forward in the saddle, eyes bent intently on him. Her attitude suggested that she was ready to wheel and flee on the instant.

“Hey, you have truly the tongue of a magpie!” grumbled Khlit. “Were you the rider that braved the waters of the Tarim to pass me by along the caravan trail?”

“Aye, dullard. While you were swearing like a caphar and reading lies in the tracks in the sand. Now it is my whim to seek you. A fool, and an old fool, is harmless.”

So saying she urged her horse nearer to the fire by a slight pressure of the knees—for she rode astride, as a man.

“Whence come you? Whither go you, in the great desert, O prattle-tongue?” asked Khlit.

The bright eyes over the veil were fixed on the fire, yet Khlit was aware that they kept him well in view.

“Nay, gray-beard, am I other than a Ghil of the waste? Have you seen me come to your fire? I am here at the word of one who was master of the earth. Now he is dead, yet his word keeps me here.”

“Ha! The fat Son of Heaven who is master of China?”

“Nay—” the black eyes half closed in a tantalizing smile—“a greater one than Wan Li. Because of his death there is no bed where I am safe, nor any palace gate where I may enter. From beyond the grave his hand reaches out to me.”

“Child’s riddles,” grumbled Khlit, striding to the fire.

He cared little that a woman of rank, and unescorted, should be in the Gobi. One thing he had guessed. The soft, quick speech

of the woman stirred his memory. He recalled another who had spoken similarly. His visitor was a Persian by birth.

She placed a jeweled hand lightly on his shoulder.

“I am hungry,” she said plaintively. “And those who were to meet me here by the Tarim, two days’ journey from Khoten, have not come. I have no food—and it grows cold.”

“Dismount, then, and eat.”

Long and earnestly the dark eyes scanned the tall Cossack. As if reassured, the girl slipped from the saddle of the gray steed to ground, uttering an exclamation of pain as the circulation started in numbed feet. Khlit silently arranged a seat for her on his saddle-cloth and set about preparing a meal with the small means at his disposal.

III

“While I sleep, gray-beard, you may mount your horse and watch, lest others approach too near. With the dawn you should see two riders coming from the south in haste, for they are belated—a sin worthy of death by bastinado to those not of such high caste as these two.”

Khlit eyed his companion grimly. Was he one to be ordered about by a woman? Even such as this one? For she had put down her veil on eating, explaining that, as he was a caphar—a Christian—there was no sin in his seeing the countenance of a woman who was a true believer. When Khlit asked how she knew he was a Christian she touched the miniature gold cross he wore at his neck with a ringed forefinger. Khlit saw that the ring bore an emerald of great size.

“There were some of your faith at the court of the great king,” she remarked idly.

“What name bears this khan?”

She glanced at him and smiled fleetingly. Resting her rounded chin on her hand, she gazed at the fire. Khlit saw that her beauty was as fine as the texture of a peacock’s plumage, as delicate as the tinted heart of a rare shell. Her eyes were not aslant, but level as his own.

The molding of the luminous brow and the tiny mouth be-spoke pride and intelligence. The dark hair peering from under the hood of the khalat was abundant and silk-like.

The shawl about her slender shoulders was open at the throat, revealing a splendid throat ringed in pearl necklaces. Here was a woman who had undoubtedly been mistress of many slaves, who was a Mohammedan, with jewels to the value of many horses— even a principality.

“Akbar, of Ind,” she said.

Khlit had heard of Ind as a land of many peoples and great treasure, whence caravans came to China. As far as he had a purpose in his wandering, he was bound there.

“Are there many yurts and tents in Akbar’s camp?” he inquired. The girl stared at him frankly and threw back her head with a musical laugh.

“O steppe boor! O one-of-small-wisdom! There be palaces in the empire of Akbar the Mogul as many as the tents of one of your dirty Tatar camps.” The laugh ended abruptly. “Nay, he has a following of millions of many faiths, who obey his word from Samarkand to the Ganges’ mouth. And his word has laid the seal of death on Nur-Jahan—”

She broke off, biting her lip swiftly with a vexed frown. “Hey—is that the name they have given you, little night-bird?” Khlit yawned indifferently. “It has a strange sound.”

“It is mine at the bidding of a prince, dolt!” she cried. “And you have heard it. That is an evil thing, for I wish it not to be known.”

“It matters not,” growled the Cossack, lighting his long-stemmed black pipe while the woman regarded him with vexed intentness. “I shall not speak it—nay, I care little for the secrets of a palace courtesan.”

Nur-Jahan leaned swiftly toward him. Khlit caught the glitter of metal in the firelight and threw up his hand in time to seize the slender hand that held a dagger a few inches from his chest. He turned the girl’s wrist curiously to the light, inspecting the

tiny weapon, scarce larger than the jade pendants that twinkled at her ears.

“Are these the weapons of Ind?” he asked mildly, a glimmer in his deep-set eyes. “And have you forgotten, Nur-Jahan, the faith of a follower of Mahomet, who may not slay one with whom he has shared bread and salt?”

With that he released the Persian’s wrist. The girl’s cheeks were crimson and her eyes brilliant with anger. But the dagger fell to her lap.

Truly, thought Khlit, she was one of rank, for an ordinary concubine would not be so quick to resent a slight. The favorite of a prince, perhaps.

“Harken, little spitfire. Why did you leave the land of Ind for the foul Gobi desert—alone?”

“Nay, not alone. There was one with me who is worth ten other warriors. In the morning he will come, by the caravan track. Let him find you gone, caphar, or your life will cease as the flame of a candle in the wind, and the ravens will eat of your head!”

“He must be a brave khan, then. But he left you, Nur-Jahan, alone in the lap of Gobi. How may that be?”

“He went to Khoten for news—of Ind. For tidings, and another who came over the mountains to join us. Also, to get food, which we lacked. As I said, Chauna Singh is belated and I shall scold him well. Nay, caphar, I could not go to Khoten lest I be seen; and Breath of the Wind—” she pointed to the gray horse—“is a stallion of Kabul, fleeter than the beasts of this country. He would keep me safe.”

“A good horse, little night-bird. But fear you not I will slay you for those jewels—” Khlit nodded at her throat—“take the stallion and leave your fair body for the eyes of this Chauna Singh?”

Nur-Jahan shook her dark head with a smile.

“What will be, will be. And it is not written that my grave lies in the desert. Besides, I read honesty in your dull eyes—honesty and stupidity. Strong men are my slaves. Speak, caphar!” She shifted on the robe until her head was near his shoulder. “Without

doubt you are old in the ways of loves and have had many women to your will. Have you seen one so fair as I? Speak—is it not so? A prince, ruler of ten thousand swords, swore I was more lovely than the gardens of Kashmir in Spring. Aye, than the lotus and tulips of the divine wife of Prithvi-Raj. What say you, old warrior?”

There was assurance in the poise of the splendid head near Khlit, and a soft undertone to the musical voice. Nur-Jahan spoke artlessly, yet with the pride of one whose beauty had brought to her—power. And great power.

Khlit was conscious of a perfume that came from the silken garments under the heavy khal at—a mingling of faint musk and dried rose-leaves. He looked steadily into the dark eyes, eyes that were veiled shadows changing to luminous pools, deep and full as the waters of quiet lakes.

“You are a child, Nur-Jahan,” he said gruffly, “and there is evil in you as well as beauty.”

Nur-Jahan considered him gravely, drawing the khalat closer about her, for it grew cold.

“What is evil, old warrior?” she mused. “The word of Allah the wise tells us that we know not what is before us or behind. We are wind-swept leaves on the roadway of fate. Our lives are written before we come to the world. Why do you call me evil? Nay, I will show you that it is not so.”

She paused, making designs in the sand with the dagger point. Khlit threw some more wood on the fire.

“You know my name,” she continued. “And that must not be. I am hiding, to save myself from the decree of Akbar, who, when he felt the angel of death standing near, ordered my execution. There was no place in Ind where I would be safe—nor in Tibet or Ladak. So I came with one other over the mountains into the desert. You go to Khoten, doubtless, and my enemies are there. So you may not live to say that you have seen me.”

Khlit made no response. His indifference vexed the girl.

“By the face of the Prophet, you are witless!” she stormed. “Nay, since you have shared bread with me, I will offer you a chance of life before Chauna Singh comes. Or he will assuredly slay you. For the life of one such as you—and a caphar—is of trifling importance beside my secret. In spite of your sharing food with me he will slay you very quickly. He is a swordsman among a thousand.”

“Then I shall wait until I see him, prattle-tongue. I have not seen a true swordsman since a certain Tatar khan died at my side.”

“Fool! If you stay, your grave is dug here. Get you to horse. It will be several hours before Chauna Singh will sight our fire. If you ride north at once, he may not follow far, for he will not leave me again for long. So you may save your skin.”

Khlit stretched his gaunt arms, for he was sleepy and the woman’s talk disturbed him.

“I go south to Khoten—not north,” he responded curtly. “As for Chauna Singh, let him look to his own skin, if he stands in my way.”

Nur-Jahan stared at the Cossack as if she had not heard aright. She noted the deep-set eyes under gray brows, still alert in spite of their wrinkles, and the lean, hard cheeks, stretched firmly over the bones. A man not unlike her own people, she thought, yet one of rude dress and coarse bearing.

“Chauna Singh,” she protested, “is a man in the prime of life, O one-without-wisdom, and you—”

“Truly, I am wearied of talk.”

With this Khlit betook himself to the other side of the fire, where he rolled himself in his long coat and was asleep almost on the instant.

Thus it was that Khlit shared food and fire with the woman who came to him in the desert, whose name was strange to him. And Nur-Jahan, watching sleepily by the tamarisk flames, thought that here was a man of a kind she had not met with, who cared not for her beauty and less for the threat of death, yet who gave up his shelter and the half of his food to her.

IV

It is written in the annals of the Raj that Pertap, the hero, gave his horse to a generous foe, thus risking death.

Wherefore do the men of the Raj cry: “Ho! Níla-ghora ki aswár,” when they ride into battle. For the memory of a Rájput is long.

The sound of voices wakened Khlit from a deep sleep. A glance told him that two riders had come up and were halted beside the woman, who was on her feet, talking to them.

Khlit rose leisurely and stirred up the remnants of the fire. This done, he scanned the newcomers. Both were well clad and mounted. One, a lean man of great height, bore a scar the length of his dark cheek. The Cossack noted that he sat his horse with ease, that the beast was of goodly breed, that the peaked saddle was jewel mounted and that gold inlaid mail showed under the white satin vestment over the rider’s square shoulders. His turban was small and knotted over one ear, the end hanging over the right shoulder.

He was heavily bearded and harsh of face, thanks in part to the scar which ran from chin to brow, blighting one eye, which was half-closed. The other man Khlit passed over for the time. He was bent, with the fragile frame of a child and a mild, wrinkled face.

Nur-Jahan was speaking urgently to the man with the scar, who frowned, shaking his turbaned head. His glance searched Khlit scornfully. Apparently he was refusing some request of the girl’s. Without taking his eyes from the Cossack, he dismounted and strode toward the fire.

“Ho! Rider of the mangy pony!” he cried, in broken Uigur. “One without manners, of a race without honor. I have heard the tale of Nur-Jahan and your death is at hand.”

Khlit lifted his arm, showing his empty hand.

“I seek no quarrel, Chauna Singh,” he said slowly. “I am no old woman, to gossip concerning the affairs of others. Peace! Go your way, and I go mine.”

“To Khoten?” The bearded lip of Chauna Singh lifted in a snarl. “It may not be. Nay, I do not desire your death; but the life of Nur?

Jahan is my charge, and the sword is the only pledge that seals the lips of a man. Come, take your weapon!”

Khlit stared at the other grimly. He had no wish to quarrel. And Chauna Singh was an individual of formidable bearing. There was no help for it.

“Be it so,” he said briefly.

On the instant the two curved blades were flashing together, the two warriors soft-stepping in the sand. The weapons, like the men, were of equal size. Chauna Singh, however, wore a vest of fine mail, while Khlit was protected only by his heavy coat.

The warrior attacked at once, his scimitar making play over Khlit’s sheepskin cap. A tall man, the champion of Nur-Jahan was accustomed to beat down the guard of an adversary. Khlit’s blade was ever touching the scimitar, fending it skillfully before a stroke had gained headway.

Chauna Singh’s one eye glittered and his mustache bristled in a snarl. Here was not the easy game he had anticipated. Nor was the Cossack to be tricked into a false stroke by a pretended lapse on his part—as the other speedily learned.

The girl and the other rider watched in intent silence. Khlit had sufficient faith in the honor of his foes not to fear a knife in his back at the hand of Chauna Singh’s comrade. He had eyes for nothing but the dazzling play of the other’s weapon, which ceaselessly sought head, throat, and side.

While Khlit’s sword made play his brain was not idle. He saw that Chauna Singh appeared tireless, while his own arm lacked the power of youth. Soon he would be at a disadvantage. He must put the fight to an issue at once.

And so Khlit lunged at Chauna Singh—lunged and sank on one knee as if from the impetus of his thrust. His blade, for a second, was lowered.

Had Chauna Singh not held his adversary in mild contempt he would have known that a swordsman of Khlit’s skill would not have made such a blunder. But the Rájput, heated by the conflict, uttered a cry of triumph and swung aloft his scimitar.

“Ho! Níla-ghora ki aswár!” he shouted—the war-cry of his race.

Ere the blow he planned had been launched, Chauna Singh jerked himself backward. Khlit’s weapon had flashed up under his guard, and the wind of it fanned his beard. Had the Rájput been a whit less active on his feet his chin would have been severed from his neck. As it was, the outer fold of his turban fell to his shoulders in halves.

A blow upward from the knee—a difficult feat—was an old trick of the Cossack.

Momentarily the two adversaries were apart, eyeing each other savagely. The voice of Nur-Jahan rang out.

“Stay, Chauna Singh! Peace! Hold your clumsy hand and let me speak!”

Khlit saw the girl step between them. At her whispered urging Chauna Singh sheathed his weapon with a scowl.

“Harken, gray-beard, you be a pretty hand at swordplay. Al-most you had dyed red the beard of stupid Chauna Singh. I have need of such men as you, and, verily, I can ill spare the big Rájput. You know my secret, and Chauna Singh, who has room for only one thought in his thick skull, will not consent to letting you go free. But come with us. Thus we can keep watch over your tongue.”

The Cossack considered this, leaning on his sword.

“I go to Khoten, Nur-Jahan,” he made answer gruffly.

“And we likewise. These men have brought me news which takes us to the city. Come! In Khoten a lone man fares ill, for the place is a scum of thieves and slit throats.”

Khlit had no especial liking for company. On the other hand, Chauna Singh’s swordplay had won his hearty respect. The Persian’s words had not the ring of treachery. And her champion, although quick to draw blade, was not one to slay without warning.

“Whither go you from Khoten?” he asked.

Nur-Jahan hesitated. But the man on the horse spoke, in a voice strangely musical.

“We go into the heart of peril, warrior—by a path beset with enemies. If you live, you will reach the hills of Kashmir and Ind and find honor at a Mogul’s court. Have you heart for such a venture?”

Khlit glanced at the speaker curiously. The other could not have chosen words more to his liking. He saw a thin, dark face bent between slender shoulders, a sensitive mouth and shrewd, kindly eyes.

“Aye, khan,” said Chauna Singh bluntly, “if you want good blows, given and taken, come with us—and gain a treasure of rare horses and jewels. But, give heed, your life will not be safe— for we face a thousand foes, we three, and a thousand that we see not or know not, until they strike.”

“Be you men of the Mogul?”

Khlit saw the three exchange a curious glance. Nur-Jahan’s eyes lighted mockingly.

“If we live, khan—aye. But if we die we be foes of the mighty Mogul Akbar of Ind. Will you come, being our comrade-in-arms and the keeper of my secret?”

The Cossack sheathed his sword.

“Aye—be it so. Many enemies give honor to a man.”

The Rájput strode forward, placing hand on lips and chest.

“By the white horse of Prithvi-Raj, I like it well! I have not met such a swordsman in a feast of moons. Ho! If we live, you will drink good wine of Shiraz and I will watch. If we die, we will spread a carpet of dead about us such as will delight the gods.”

Nur-Jahan’s piquant face was smiling slightly, but the shrewd eyes of the man on the horse were inscrutable.

V

“And it was as the mir said. The word of a dead man has doomed her. Because of her beauty is she doomed. It is written that a fair

maiden is like to a ruby-cup of wine that heats the brain of men while it stirs their senses.”

Hamar, the companion of Chauna Singh, smiled meditatively at Khlit, stroking his mustache with a thin hand. The man, Khlit had discovered, was a musician of Hind, a wandering philosopher of Nur-Jahan’s country. He it was who had come from Kashmir to Khoten with word from the Mogul court that they were to hasten back.

The four were trotting along the caravan track, a day’s ride nearer the city. Nur-Jahan, on her gray horse, was leading, with Chauna Singh at her side. Khlit and the minstrel followed at some distance, keeping a wary eye on the rear, for they had passed one or two corteges of merchants, journeying from Aksu to Khoten.

“How may that be?” grunted Khlit, who had no liking for riddles and twisted words. “When a man is dead he cannot work harm.”

“Nay, but this is Akbar, lord of Delhi, ruler of the Raj, conqueror of Kashmir and Sind—monarch of five times a hundred thousand blades. His whispered word was law from Turkestan to the Dekkan. A mighty man, follower of Mahomet, achieving by his lone strength the mastery of the Mogul empire. He is dead, but his word lives.”

“And that word—”

“To slay Nur-Jahan.” The faded eyes of the minstrel had gleamed at mention of the glories of Akbar; now they were somber. A man of wisdom, thought Khlit, considering his companion, and a dreamer.

“Harken, khan.” Hamar roused himself. “This is the story. Akbar carved for himself the empire of the Moguls, following in the footsteps of his illustrious grandsire, Babur. Yet is the empire formed of races of many faiths—Muslims from Turkestan, Hindus of Ind, Jains and Buddhists of Ladak, and priests of another temple who are masters in the hills. To hold together such an empire, the ruler must be one with his subjects—and Akbar, of blessed wisdom, was a patron of many faiths. Men say that he

died calling upon the gods of Brahma, although a Muslim. I have seen him bow the head in many temples. So he held the jealous races of the empire together. And so must his successor, Jahangir, do.”

Hamar paused, glancing over the waste ahead of them, where the barren trunks of dead trees reared themselves above the whitened bones of camels.

“When Jahangir was a youth of fifteen,” he resumed, “he met the maiden Mir-un-nissa, now called Nur-Jahan, in a palace festival. He gave the Persian girl two doves to hold for him. One escaped her grasp. Jahangir, angered, demanded how. Verily, then the proud temper of the maiden showed. ‘Thus!’ she cried and freed the other bird. From that moment the prince loved her— aye, steadfastly.”

“The tale wearies me,” growled Khlit. “Bah—doves and a maiden—what have they to do with an empire?”

“Much,” smiled the minstrel patiently. “In our land men love passionately and long. Jahangir still desires Nur-Jahan—and he is now Mogul. Akbar, foreseeing this in his wisdom, married the maiden to one Sher Afghan, a notable warrior and a proud man. Yet Nur-Jahan fled from Sher Afghan when Akbar sickened.”

“Wherefore?”

“Nay, you know not our people, khan. Jahangir, being ruler, will doubtless slay Sher Afghan, for the new Mogul’s love for the maiden is great and they betrothed themselves, one to the other, when they were young. Again, Akbar thought of this and pledged the friends of his deathbed to slay the girl before she became the queen of Jahangir.”

Khlit thought that Nur-Jahan might well prove a disturbing influence over a young ruler. Yet surely there must be a further reason for Akbar’s command of death. Hamar, as if reading his thoughts, pointed to the slim figure of the girl.

“Shall a serpent come into a nest of eggs? So reasoned Akbar. The maiden Nur-Jahan is devoted to Islam and the rule of the Muslim. She is strong of will, and she would win Jahangir to her

views. Then the Mogul would join himself to the Mohammedans and the empire of Babur and Akbar would vanish, thus!”

Hamar plucked a dried rose from a wallet at his girdle and tossed it into the air. The delicate petals fell apart and dropped into the sand. Hamar watched them moodily. His voice had been vibrant with feeling.

“Nur-Jahan escaped death?” Khlit demanded, for the other’s story had begun to interest him.

“Once, by aid of Chauna Singh, a follower of Sher Afghan. And fled over the mountains. Now Jahangir has sent me from the Agra court with word for her to return. Once in his palace, he will safeguard her.”

“What of the knight, Sher Afghan?”

Hamar lifted his eyebrows slightly and waved a thin hand.

“A broken twig swept away by the current of a strong river— have you seen it, khan? Not otherwise is Sher Afghan. He is a proud man, who will not give up his wife—even if she be so only in name. His days are numbered.”

Khlit nodded. He had seen a citadel stormed because of the beauty of an insulted woman and the emperor of Han pardon treachery because of the smile of a favorite. The witchery of such women, he reflected, was an evil thing.

“Hey,” he laughed. “Then the matter is simple. We have but to take the maiden to Agra, to the embraces of her lover, the Mogul.”

The minstrel smiled inscrutably.

“Think you so? You forget the word of Akbar. Among his followers are the priests of Kali, the four-armed, and—from the mountains—disciples of Bon, the Destroyer. They have sworn an oath to him that the girl shall not live. Their shrines are found from Khoten to Delhi and in the hills. Their servants are numbered as the sands of the great desert. Likewise they are priests of the gods, and the death of the Persian Muslim will safeguard their faith in Ind. Why did not Jahangir send an army to bring

her to him? Nay, in the ranks would be assassins of Kali. The elephant drivers would see that she fell from the howdah.”

Khlit grunted scornfully. Hamar’s eyes flashed as he pointed ahead of them, where the dust of a caravan rose.

“If we drink from a cup, we must look for poison. If we sleep in a caravansary, the camel men will come to us like evil lings with drawn knives. We be but four against a thousand. Aye, from his tomb, the hand of Akbar has set the seal of sacrifice on Nur-Jahan’s forehead.”

VI

In every Temple they seek Thee; in every language they praise Thee. Each faith says it holds Thee.

Thee I seek from Temple to Temple.

But only the dust of the Rose Petal remains to the seller of

perfume. Akbar, the Mogul

The caravansary was a low stone wall built around a well by the desert route. It was littered with dung and the leavings of former visitors. In the twilight it loomed desolate and vacant.

Chauna Singh had been unwilling to rest there the night, but Hamar pointed out that the sun was down, the air chill, and they had need of water. True, the caravan they had passed a short way back was hard on their heels; but they had been seen as they rode by it, and if danger was to be expected from the merchants and their followers it was better to face it in the lighted enclosure of the caravansary than to journey further into the desert—where they could easily be traced.

Nur-Jahan added her voice to Hamar’s, and the Rájput, grumbling, bestirred himself to build a fire for the woman on the blackened debris of the hearth. Khlit tended the horses—a task readily yielded to him by Chauna Singh, who was not overfond of manual labor, except on the behalf of his mistress.

Khlit saw that the enclosure was similar to a Khirghiz aul— sufficiently large to accommodate them and the cortege which presently entered. Chauna Singh had shrewdly chosen a corner of the place farthest from the gate, where they could face the

new arrivals. He aided the Cossack in preparing some rice over the fire, both apparently giving no heed to the other caravan but keeping a keen lookout.

“They be low-caste traders from the Han country,” muttered the Rájput beneath his breath. “Men without honor, poor fighters; still—with ruffianly following.”

“Hillmen—Khirghiz, a few,” assented Khlit, who knew the folk of the uplands. “Hook-nosed Usbeks, a fat mandarin or two, some beggarly Dungans—and a swine-faced Turkoman.”

“Aye, the Turkoman may bear watching. He has a score of rascals.”

Chauna Singh glanced at Khlit in some surprise at the Cossack’s knowledge. The look was scornful, half askance, the look of a man who traced his ancestors to the gods and held honor dearer than life.

“Whence come you, khan, that you know the people of the hills? What is your caste?”

“For the present, Chauna Singh,” said Khlit, “I come from Tatary. There I was but one among a hundred khans. They called me Khlit, of the Curved Saber.”

“That is a strange name,” meditated the Rájput. “Nay, by Shiva, you must be more than a small khan—a leader of a hundred! Surely, you had rank?”

Khlit stirred the fire calmly. He traced his ancestors to Genghis Khan, and the curved sword was that of Kaidu, overlord and hero of Tatary. Yet the Rájput’s insolence irked him. Chauna Singh did not know that Khlit had been Kha Khan of the remaining tribes of Tatary.

“A leader of a hundred?” he growled. “Not so. I am lord of nothing save yonder pony. As for rank, I once spoke to the great emperor of Han—and he gave me some gold.”

The Cossack’s whiskers twitched in a smile, for he had saved the emperor Wan Li from burial alive in the tomb of his ancestors and had appropriated the treasure of the tomb as payment. But this he neglected to confide to Chauna Singh.

“Ho—gold!” The Rájput muttered, giving up his questioning as fruitless. “You will have rubies and sapphires if you live to reach Jahangir.”

“You are a follower of Jahangir?” asked Khlit, eyeing the lean face framed in the firelight.

Chauna Singh’s head snapped up.

“Since the breath of life was in Ind, a Rájput has been faithful to his lord.”

Nur-Jahan kept in the background as they ate. She had per-formed her after-sunset prayer as quietly as might be, keeping her veil drawn close. Hamar had impressed upon her the need of caution.

Even Khlit felt something of the alertness that possessed the two followers of the girl. Truly, they must fear the danger they stood from the priests of Akbar, the followers of Kali and Bon. When the Turkoman strolled over from the other fires with several men and stared at them, the Cossack saw Chauna Singh rise indolently, stretch and take up a position between Nur-Jahan and the newcomers.

Hamar had drawn forth his vina—a guitar-like instrument—at which he was plucking softly. The Turkoman’s slant eyes took in the scene and he swaggered forward.

Khlit did not hear what the caravan man said to Hamar, but Chauna Singh said in a whisper that he was asking if Nur-Jahan were a slave.

The minstrel responded idly, without raising his eyes from the guitar. As he did so Khlit saw the ragged followers of their visitor edge to either side of the fire, as if to watch the musician.

Intently as he watched, he could not tell if the movement was preconceived or chance. The Turkoman spat into the fire, squatting opposite Hamar.

“He asked,” whispered the Rájput to Khlit, “for a song. He has the face of a dolt, but—take care lest the followers get behind you. They have knives in their girdles.”

The Turkoman, who announced that his name was Bator Khan, demanded in a loud voice that Hamar make them a tune and the slave girl dance. It was a breach of politeness that Chauna Singh and the minstrel passed over in silence. The attendants had ceased moving forward and were staring at them, chattering together, clearly waiting for a word from Bator Khan.

The conduct of the group did not impress Khlit favorably. They were too curious, too serious in what they did. Suppose that the evil-faced Turkoman should prove to be an enemy of Nur-Jahan? They were four against a dozen.

The Cossack was too wise in the ways of violence to show his foreboding. He waited quietly, his hands near his sword hilt, for what was to come. Perhaps Bator Khan was merely a merchant who saw an opportunity to seize a slave girl. If so, he would not be likely to try force unless he thought he could take the three men unaware.

A silence fell as Hamar leaned forward to the fire. Khlit saw him lay a white silk scarf on the ground before him. Reaching behind him, the minstrel placed a crystal goblet on the cloth.

“Bring water,” he said softly to one of the followers of Bator Khan. “And fill the goblet to the edge—no more. The water must be clean.”

The man did as he was bid, with a glance at the Turkoman. All eyes were on the minstrel as he took up his guitar. His delicate hands passed lightly over the strings, which vibrated very faintly.

“You have asked for a song, Bator Khan,” he said mildly. “So be it. I will play the bhairov, which is the song of water. Nay, you know not the high art of music—the training which enables one versed in the mysteries of tones to influence the elements—fire, air, and water—which correspond to the tones. But watch, and you will see.”

With a swift motion he tossed something from his hand into the flames. The smoke grew denser. A strong, pungent odor struck Khlit’s nostrils. Some of the men of Bator Khan started

back fearfully. Those who held their ground stared wide-eyed. Khlit knew the superstition of their breed.

Hamar closed his eyes. Sounds, faint and poignant, came from the strings under his fingers. Khlit had seen him exchange no word with Chauna Singh or Nur-Jahan. Reflecting on this later, he reasoned that the other two must have known what the minstrel was about.

Bator Khan stared mockingly at the musician. Gradually, how-ever, as the note of the guitar grew louder, the mockery faded and the Turkoman watched open-mouthed.

Hamar was repeating the same chords—varying them fancifully. The melody was like the tinkling of chimes with an undertone as of heavy temple gongs. It vibrated, caressing the same note, until it seemed to Khlit that the note hung in the air.

He had never heard the mystical Hindu music and he liked it little. Yet the impression of chimes persisted. Almost he could have sworn that bronze bells were echoing in the air overhead. And still Hamar harped on the vibrant note.

The ring of men was silent. Khlit saw that they were all staring at the goblet, save Chauna Singh and Nur-Jahan, who were in shadow. And he saw that the water in the glass was stirring, moving up and down.

The melody grew louder. Khlit swore under his breath. For the water was splashing about—although the goblet was steady and the cloth a good yard from Hamar. And then the water began to run down the sides of the vessel, staining the cloth.

It trickled down slowly, while the Turkoman’s men drew back. One or two started away from the fire, staring at the cloth in fear. Even Bator Khan got to his feet and stepped back a pace.

The tune of Hamar ceased. And the water in the goblet was still. “Hide of the devil!” swore the Turkoman. “It was a trick.”

Hamar opened his eyes and smiled. Khlit saw him cast a half-glance behind him.

“Lift the cloth, then, O one-of-small-faith,” said the minstrel. “How could it be a trick?”

Bator Khan did so, hesitantly. The whole of the scarf was wet through. But the goblet was still full to the brim. Hamar regarded him smilingly.

Khlit rose, intending to speak to Chauna Singh. He grunted in surprise. The Rájput and the girl were gone.

VII

They did not return to the caravansary. Bator Khan, apparently in an ill humor, left the Cossack and Hamar to themselves. They spent the night in the enclosure. The dawn was yet cold in the sky the next day when Hamar roused Khlit and the two saddled their horses and rode from the place.

“It was agreed,” explained the minstrel, “that if we separated I was to meet the Rájput and Nur-Jahan at a certain tavern in Khoten. They must have ridden during the night and will be there ahead of us.”

Khlit spurred his horse.

“Hey, minstrel!” he cried. “That was a rare trick you played the Turkoman.”

Hamar’s brow darkened.

“Call you that a trick? Dullard of the steppe! One without wisdom! Is my art like to a conjurer’s mummery? I will teach you otherwise.” His frown lightened, “Nay, Khlit, you know not our art. ’Tis true I played but to draw the attention of yonder fools while Nur-Jahan slipped away. But as for the music—”

He smiled again, the sad, almost bitter smile that was the habit of the man. For the rest of the day they rode in silence. Khlit’s thoughts turned on the man beside him.

Hamar perplexed him. Apparently a Hindu, the minstrel was familiar with the Muslim faith, a deep thinker, an ascetic. Khlit seldom saw him eat, and then only sparingly. His faded eyes, blank almost as those of a blind man, were masks for his thoughts. Khlit had not seen his like before.

At Khoten—a nest of hovels where four caravan routes met and crossed, yet some palaces and temples and a teeming population

of every race—Hamar avoided the central squares and led Khlit down a bystreet to a low structure of sun-dried clay.

It was already evening, and they found the tavern half-filled with dirty camel drivers and some ill-favored merchants. Slaves were quartered in the courtyard with the horses.

Hamar left Khlit seated over a beaker of rank wine and a joint of meat, to seek out Chauna Singh and his charge. The Cossack beckoned the tavern-keeper—a silk-clad Chinaman.

“Hey, moon-face,” he growled, “who is the master of this town?”

“May it please the illustrious khan,” bowed the man, speaking in the Tatar tongue, as Khlit had done, “who has sullied his boots by entering my insignificant house—the city of Khoten is free of august authority, save for the Heaven-appointed folk of the temples.”

“And what manner of scum are they?”

“Doubtless the illustrious khan has heard of the never-to-beprofaned Buddha and the many sects of the mountains, who are called the priests of the black hats. He may see for himself, for within two days there is the festival of Bon.”

“A festival? Then there will be feasting in the streets of Khoten?”

The innkeeper, arms crossed in his wide sleeves, became silent. The Cossack, with a swift glance, threw a piece of gold on the board from his wallet. His host caught it up, thrusting it into a sleeve. The slant eyes scanned the room cautiously and he leaned nearer.

“May the liberal khan be blessed with many children and great honor. Lo Ch’un has kept his dirty house in Khoten for twice ten years, but he has not seen the rites of the august black hats—the bonpas. They are divine secrets. Yet it has been whispered by those loose of tongue that the masked slaves of Buddha sacrifice to their altars on the Year of the Rat.”

Khlit nodded impatiently. He, also, had heard tales of the Khoten temples and those of the mountains but had set them

down as idly spoken. Nevertheless, he had had reason to know the power of the Buddhist sects in Central Asia—different from the mild religion of the Chinese, and little better than demon worship.

Lo Ch’un continued with the same caution:

“It is not well to speak of such things, illustrious warrior, and my fear is greater than my yearning to be of service. But—” a crafty smile distorted his features—“I know what may be of value to you—”

Khlit laid another gold-piece on the table, and Lo Ch’un appropriated it with a claw-like hand, his bleared eyes gleaming covetously.

“Servants of Bon, the Destroyer, have arrived from Ladak and Ind and entered the Khoten temples. Men say they have censored the priests here for indolence in serving the faith. There are many black hats in the town and they have insolently—nay, augustly— made search of the caravans and taverns. They bear scowling brows. Harken, noble khan, to a word of wisdom from the lowly Lo Ch’un.”

The tavern-keeper bent his evil-smelling mouth close to the Cossack.

“The Khirghiz and Usbek merchants and tribesmen are leaving Khoten before the festival of Bon. It would be well to go hence— say not that I have spoken thus!”

Khlit nodded indifferently. He had neither fear nor respect for the mummery of the priesthoods that influenced the borderland of China. Interpreting what Lo Ch’un had said in the light of Hamar’s story, he guessed that the bonpas from over the mountains had been messengers of the sect bearing news of Nur-Jahan. It was possible. And possible, also, that the Turkoman Bator Khan had been one of the slaves of the black hats.

Frequently, he knew, the priesthood controlled tribesmen through the bondage of fear.

A woman peered between the curtains of the further side of the room, her sallow cheeks crimson with paint, and faded flowers

in her hair. She beckoned silently to Lo Ch’un, who pad-padded to her side. For a moment the two talked. Khlit drew out his pipe and scanty stock of tobacco. He began to wonder where Hamar had disappeared to.

When Lo Ch’un came to remove the joint of meat, Khlit stayed him.

“A word, moon-face,” he growled. “Know you aught of the Turkoman merchant Bator Khan? Does he come often to Khoten?”

“I know not, honorable khan.”

“Well, devil take you—do the caravan merchants stop here?” “If it is their noble will.”

“How dress these precious masked servants of Bon?” “How should I know, honorable warrior?”

Khlit stared at Lo Ch’un, scowling. A change had come over the wrinkled face of the Chinaman. All expression had faded from his half-shut eyes. His voice was smooth as before, but less assured.

It was clear to the Cossack that his host regretted his speech of a moment ago. Wherefore? Perhaps the woman at the curtain had warned Lo Ch’un. Perhaps it was the mention of Bator Khan.

Khlit rose and grasped the shoulder of Lo Ch’un.

“Harken, keeper of a dirty house,” he whispered. “I shall stay in Khoten. If I meet with ill treatment from those you call the black hats, I shall have a tale to tell them of a loose tongued Lo Ch’un. Meditate upon that. The priests like not to have their secrets talked of.”

The dim eyes of the tavern-keeper widened slightly and he licked his lips. With a sudden motion he shook himself from the Cossack and vanished behind the curtain.

VIII

Khlit smiled to himself, well pleased. If Lo Ch’un was actually under the kang of the priests, the man might tell them that Khlit purposed to remain in Khoten. Which would be well, considering that the Cossack doubted not Hamar planned to be on his way shortly.

Doubtless the three fugitives had stopped at Khoten but for provisions. Khlit turned this over in his mind. If he had been in Chauna Singh’s place he would have sent one man in for the food and remained without the town. Surely it was dangerous for Nur-Jahan here.

But then, he reasoned, Chauna Singh—shrewd in fighting— was a blunt man, of few brains. On the other hand, Hamar should have known better than to come to Khoten. Well, after all, the crafty minstrel had been obliged to follow the other two. He had had no chance, owing to the intrusion of Bator Khan, to confer with them before they left the caravansary.

Where was Hamar? Had he found the other two? What was keeping him?

Khlit yawned, for he was sleepy. It would not do for him to fall asleep here in the house of Lo Ch’un. He determined to go forth and seek the minstrel.

As the Cossack pushed through the door, he saw, from the corner of his eye, a man rise from a table and follow. Khlit continued on his way, but once in the shadows beside the door frame— darkness had fallen on the town—he drew back against the wall. Experience had taught him it was not well to let another come after him from a place where were many enemies.

No sooner had he done so than another appeared in the door-way, peering into the dark street. Light shone on him from within and his features struck Khlit as familiar. It was a surly rascal in tattered garments—one of the men of Bator Khan.

The fellow looked up and down the street, muttering to him-self. He did not see the Cossack in the deep shadows beside him. Then he stepped forward into the gloom at a quick pace. It was clear to Khlit that the man was seeking to follow him and angered at having missed him.

Khlit wasted no time in slipping after the camel driver. Two could play at that simple game, and if the other was interested in him he might do well to observe whither the man went.

The Cossack’s keen brain was active as he pressed after the hurrying servant, keeping in the deep shadows of the low build?

ings. There was no moon, but occasional gleams from doorways served to reveal his guide.

Bator Khan must have arrived in Khoten. Moreover Khlit and Hamar had been traced to the tavern. How? Well, it mattered not. But Bator Khan alone could not have located them so speedily. Others must have given him information.

Here were tidings for Hamar and Chauna Singh when he met them. Khlit grinned to himself. The Rájput and the minstrel had shown little liking for his advice. Let them lie in the bed they had made for themselves! But there was the girl, Nur-Jahan— aye, Nur-Jahan.

Khlit paused. From a lighted door had come a fellow who spoke to the camel driver. The two whispered together. At once the man he was following turned aside down an alley.

The Cossack did not hesitate. Freeing a pistol in his belt, he made after the man. Boldness was Khlit’s policy in any hazard. He had learned that it paid best to be on the move when there was danger afoot and leave indecision to his enemies.

Gloom was thick in the alley, and thick also the stench of decayed meat, fish oil, and dirt that filled it. The man ahead was running now, which was fortunate, for Khlit traced him by ear, trotting as lightly as his heavy boots permitted.

Down the alley into another the two passed; from thence to a wide square—evidently a bazaar—where crowds loitered. The light was better here and the Cossack kept his man in sight until both halted before the shadowy pile of a massive building.

Khlit scanned the bulk of the place in the gloom. He made out a stone structure, windows unlit, a dim lantern over the postern door where his companion knocked.

A small panel opened in the upper half of the door and the camel driver was subjected to a long inspection. Whispered words passed between him and the person within. Whereupon the door swung open, the servant passed inside and a tall form in mail and a black cloak appeared.

It was a spearman, helmeted and grim of visage. He yawned sleepily, leaning on the haft of his weapon.

So, Khlit thought, the place—whatever it might be—was guarded. A building of that size could only be a temple or palace. And it had not the look of the latter. Khlit yearned to see what was within. The spearman did not look overshrewd.

The Cossack had learned that it was easier to get out of a building than to get in—easier sometimes than to find a place of safety else—where among many enemies. Still, it would hardly do to use violence on the spearman. He might have comrades within.

Khlit swaggered up to the man.

“Bator Khan sends me,” he said briefly in Uigur. “A message for those within.”

He was watching the fellow’s face keenly. At a sign of suspicion the Cossack would have turned back. But the bearded countenance was sleepily indifferent.

“It is well,” the other growled. “If you see one of the black hats about, bid him send me a relief. The men within must have weighty business on hand, for they hum through the corridors like a swarm of insects. But I must eat and sleep.”

Khlit passed him by without reply. He found himself in a low, long hall. At one side was a bare chamber, evidently a guard room, and empty. The Cossack paced the length of the corridor warily. At the end a flight of stone steps led upward.

These he ascended to an ill-lighted hall where two men— Chinamen—sat on benches that ran around the wall. They were dressed as servants, and unarmed. Khlit spoke to them gruffly.

“The man at the gate bids the black hats send him a relief.”

One arose at this and Khlit motioned impatiently at the other. Both left the chamber with the submissiveness of the underlings of their race. Khlit judged them little better than slaves.

He was about to go forward, when he paused in his tracks. A strong, clear voice had spoken. Yet Khlit saw that there was no

one in the room with him. The voice had seemed but a few paces distant.

Again it came, loud but muffled. Whispers repeated the words from the corners of the chamber, and fainter whispers down the stairs.

A cold tremor touched Khlit’s back and he swore under his breath. Was the room filled with men he could not see? What manner of place was this?

Then he realized the cause of the mystery. The room was lofty, of bare stone. The voice came from an adjoining corridor and the echoes of the empty halls carried the sound to where he stood.

IX

Grim and desolate was the abode of Bon, the Destroyer, in the city of Khoten. Narrow embrasures formed the windows. In the great hall of the temple proper were ranged the fetishes—miniatures of the monstrous idols in the main temple of Bon in the mountains.

In the annals of the ancient city of Khoten it is written that the secrets of Bon were safeguarded jealously. Access to the temple was difficult. Those who came to speak to the bonpas—priests— were not allowed to see the face of the man they conversed with. Especially was this true when one of the higher order of the mountain temple visited the Khoten sanctuary.

So a reception room was contrived, artfully designed so that the priest standing behind a curtain in the room would have his words carried to the ears of his visitor by echoes. The visitors stood sometimes in the chamber itself, on the outer side of the curtain, sometimes in the hall at the head of the entrance stairs— according to their degree of intimacy with the bonpas.

For the rest, the sanctuary was a place of silence, ill-omened. For the bonpas were worshipers not of Buddha or Brahma, but of Bon, the incarnate spirit of power, drawing strength through destruction and death. Thus they were allied to the tantrik sect of Kali, the four-armed.

In their halls few men showed their faces. By night men and women were brought into the halls, who left them cringing or laughing aloud, vacantly as those whose minds are disordered.

Bator Khan and his servant being followers of the bonpas were admitted to the reception chamber on the night that the Turkoman’s caravan came to Khoten.

They stood uneasily before a heavy black curtain which stretched the length of the room. At one end of this curtain was placed a priest of Bon, masked—as was their habit during a ceremonial or a visit from their superiors of the mountain temple. This mask was merely a bag-like length of cloth, dropping over the face from the black hat and painted gruesomely to awe those who visited the sanctuary.

The black hat itself consisted of a helmet-like cap of felt—to distinguish the followers of Bon from the yellow hats, who were servants of the Dalai Lama of Lhassa. In addition, the bonpa by the curtain held—as sigil of his office—a trumpet of human bone.

“Your message!” he whispered to the two. “He who waits be-hind the curtain is impatient of delay.”

Bator Khan’s pig-like face was moist from perspiration.

“I was sent, O favored of Bon,” he repeated huskily, “into the desert to seek the woman Nur-Jahan. Behold, I was aided by the god, for I came upon them in a caravansary. They be four—three men, two warriors, and the third a wandering musician—and a woman. Surely this is Nur-Jahan. I followed the four into Khoten, where I dispatched my men to find their abiding place.”

He paused, licking his thick lips. The attendant by the curtain regarded him impassively from the mask.

“This man—” he pointed to the camel driver—“found Hamar, the minstrel, and the old warrior at the noisome house of Lo Ch’un. Hamar went forth into the streets and we saw him not, owing to some black sorcery of which the man is master.”

There was no response from the voice behind the curtain— naught save the echoes of the Turkoman’s hurried words.

“As to Chauna Singh and the woman,” continued Bator Khan, “they hide in the slave market. Truly, I do not think that Hamar has seen them yet. This man of mine has kept watch on the one at Lo Ch’un’s. That is all, may it please the Presence.”

Still there was no response. The camel driver paled visibly and stared at the curtain. Bator Khan breathed heavily. The grim mask of the attendant leered at them sardonically.

“I found the woman Nur-Jahan,” protested Bator Khan defensively.

There was the sound of a laugh from the curtain, a sound taken up and passed down the corridor fitfully. The Turkoman shivered slightly.

“Dog of a dog’s begetting,” he heard, “think you to trick those who serve the gods—with lies? You were sent to find and slay the woman Nur-Jahan. Have you done so? Blunderer— braggart—heart-of-a-jackal—vermin-of-a-dunghill! The enemies of Bon have clouded your wits. We have heard what passed at the caravansary.”

Bator Khan would have spoken, but the voice went on swiftly.

“In the desert you had the four at your mercy. By a device of the minstrel, Hamar, the woman escaped. You have not seen her since. Speak, is not this the truth?”

The Turkoman gulped and muttered—

“Aye.”

“What has the camel driver to say?”

The man started and glanced furtively to the door through which he had come. But a motion of the masked priest brought his gaze to the curtain.

“O exalted-of-the-gods, source-of-divine-wisdom,” he chattered, “hear the follower who is less than the dirt beneath the hoofs of your horse. I watched the man Khlit at the tavern. He talked long with Lo Ch’un in a tongue I knew not. So I dispatched word to him by one of the harlots of the place to guard well his tongue. Then, when the tall plainsman left, I followed, and I—

His eyes widened and he lifted hand to mouth as he sought for words.

“And he escaped your sight?”

“Aye—it was dark—a comrade of Bon sent me hither—I did my best!”

The man fell on his knees, raising arms over head.

“Fate has written a seal on your forehead, driver of camels,” observed the priest behind the curtain.

“It was dark!” cried the ruffian.

“Is Bon to be served by such as you?” the voice rang out mockingly. “Nay, the god has better servants. Harken, Bator Khan. The day after the morrow is the feast day of Bon, the Destroyer. You know the rites of the feast day. The hand of Bon will be stretched over the city, and the god will rise in his strength. He must be worshiped. There will be a sacrifice.”

Bator Khan lifted a hand to wipe the moisture from his brow.

“Votaries of the god,” cried the voice, “will offer their lives. Lo, the home of the god is in the sacred mountains of Himachal, to the south. There is his sanctuary. The votaries will walk, unarmed and afoot, into the mountains, up, over the snowline. No man—not even a priest of the temple—may molest them. They will die in the summits of Himachal. Will you and the carrion that is your man offer yourselves as votaries?”

The echoes growled the words, drawn out into a long sound that was almost a shriek.

“Sacred Himachal is the abode of Mansarowar, the beast Mansarowar. Lo, the mountain abode is the fulfillment of human desires, Bator Khan—and human death. Those who journey up bearing the mark of Bon will not return. Should they comeback— if they survived the cold of the summits—to Khoten, the hand of the bonpas would slay them, slowly as if they were smitten with leprosy.”

The wretched men stared blindly at the black curtain. But when Bator Khan had made as if to speak, the voice went on.

“But you are too miserable an offering for Bon. Live then, for a time—it will not be long. Fate has set its mark on you. Mean-while, the priest will see that Nur-Jahan and her men do not leave the city. When the feast comes, they will be sought out and brought into the crowd of worshipers. There a cry will be raised against them, and they will have heart and bowels torn out by the followers of the god. It will be a pleasing sight. Now, away from here and live—if you can escape the writing of fate.”

Whereupon the two turned and ran from the chamber. The masked priest watched them pass into the corridor. Then he moved his head alertly. From the outer hall, below the steps came the clash of weapons and a cry.

The priest hesitated, glancing at the motionless curtain. The ways of the man behind the curtain were sometimes secret and past knowing. Yet he had not known that the two were to be slain as they left. A second clamor, ended by a heavy fall, aroused his suspicions and he ran out into the hall above the stairs. Two frightened servants joined him.

The three descended the stairs and passed into the entrance corridor. There they halted. The bodies of Bator Khan and the camel driver were prone on the stone floor. The mail-clad form of the spear-man who had been sentry at the gate sprawled over them on hands and knees. His weapon lay beside him, the point severed from the haft.

The masked priest bent over him as the man sank to the floor, groaning weakly. A thin stream of blood trickled from his neck.

“Fool!” cried the priest. “Have you slain the Turkoman?”

The other coughed bestially, shaking his head. He was near death. “Another—a curved sword.”

He pointed to the door which was open.

The priest and the servants ran out. In the shadows of the street a tall figure showed for an instant, then vanished.

The masked priest made as if to follow, then hesitated. Three armed men had been struck down in the space of a minute—and he did not follow.

X

Khlit and Hamar had waited in the ebony and lacquered room over the tavern of Lo Ch’un for the space of a day. The Cossack liked the room little. Tarnished silk covered the walls, and the varied odors of the alley outside, issuing through a circular window, did not relieve the smell of musk which pervaded the place.

Now and then the women of the place—girls of China, Samarkand, with one or two Georgians—peered in through the hangings of the single door but did not linger, seeing who was within. Khlit sat on a bench against the further wall wiping his sword with a fragment of silk and watching the door, while Hamar squatted beside him, tuning his guitar softly.

They had seen nothing of Nur-Jahan or Chauna Singh since their arrival in Khoten. Hamar reported that the two must be among the caravans of the slave market.

Evidently, thought Khlit, the girl and the Rájput had been kept from coming to the tavern. That they had not fallen into the hands of the bonpas he knew from the talk he had overheard in the temple of Bon. Nur-Jahan, he reasoned, had guessed at the peril she faced in the streets of Khoten and had remained in hiding.

The death of the three in the hall of the temple caused him no second thought. Not otherwise could he have escaped from the place, and they had had time to draw their weapons.

He had told the minstrel of what passed the night before.

“It is fate.” Hamar waved a lean hand, sniffing at a perfume he carried in a flask about his throat. “Higher than the scheming of the servants of the gods, khan, is the unalterable will which brings death to all things. What is to be, will be. What are the gods? Men worship them because they fear them. A dozen priest-hoods wax fat on fear. They say there are good deities. How can it be so?”

Khlit fingered the gold cross at his neck.

“This is an evil place, Hamar,” he observed. “A city in the waste of a desert—caravans that hold revelry herein—black

priests that hold the city in their power. Hey! I have not seen the cross of a church for many Winters.”

Hamar glanced at him curiously.

“A church. Nay, are there not temples enough for your liking about here?”

“Does a horse like the meat of a tiger?”

The minstrel fingered his guitar with a sigh. Suddenly Khlit found the man’s faded, green eyes peering into his own.

“Yet you like danger, Khlit, khan, and the thrill of clashing swords. Tell me, why did you not heed the warning of Lo Ch’un and leave this place before the feast of tomorrow? What matters Nur-Jahan to you? Our lives will be worth little more than the sand of the alley by another sun.”

“Bah, minstrel,” grunted the Cossack, “shall I ride hence while the woman—mischief -maker though she be—stays? Truly, it will not be easy to escape with whole skins on the morrow. Think you Nur-Jahan is still in Khoten?”

Hamar nodded.

“Aye, the Persian is shrewd. Doubtless she has learned of the watch the bonpas keep on the place. If there be a way hence, she will find it.”

He glanced again at Khlit thoughtfully.

“It is written that a diamond shines from a heap of dirt. Nay, khan, the woman reaches out to the rule of an empire with her small hand. She will have great honor—or death. And the issue lies on the dice of fate. Harken, khan. Sher Afghan, the husband of Nur-Jahan, still lives. Chauna Singh is faithful to him. What if Sher Afghan is slain by Jahangir, the Mogul?”

“Then Nur-Jahan will be free.”

“But Chauna Singh? Since the name of Ind has been, a Rájput is faithful to his lord.”

Khlit made no response. But he did not forget the words of Hamar.

The circle of the window darkened. Twilight was casting its veil over the city. From somewhere came the sunset cries of a

mullah. Hamar rose and, striking flint on stone, lit a candle. In an adjoining room Khlit heard the wailing of a woman in grief. The sound had persisted for some time.

Hamar had paid no attention to it. Men were thronging into the place from the street, and the room below was a tumult of a score of tongues. Still the wail went on, shrill and dismal.

With an oath the Cossack sprang up and pushed through the curtains. Following the sound of the crying woman, he came to another chamber like the one he had left. Within he saw a carpet spread, and on the carpet a man.

Beside him kneeled the woman who had beckoned Lo Ch’un from the tavern the night before. Her hair was disordered in grief and the stain on her cheeks showed vivid against a pallid skin. She raised inflamed eyes to the Cossack.

What drew Khlit’s gaze and brought a second oath to his lips was the sight of a bonpa mask placed over the face of the man on the rug. It was the first that Khlit had seen, but he did not mistake it.

“Hide of the devil!” he muttered, for the painted fabric leered at him grotesquely.

Something in the loose position of the man’s limbs and his dirty silk tunic aroused his suspicions.

Stepping over the prostrate form, Khlit lifted the black mask. The distorted face of Lo Ch’un stared up at him, eyes distended and flesh purple. It needed no examination to show that Lo Ch’un had been dead for some time—and Khlit remembered the long wailing of the woman.

“How was this done?” he asked the woman.

She shook her head mutely, not understanding what he said. Khlit perceived the end of a silken cord hanging from Lo Ch’un’s mouth. The cord, he saw, was attached to a gag which had been forced far down the tavern keeper’s throat.

Khlit flung the mask into a corner and turned from the room. Hamar looked up questioningly as he entered.

“Hey, minstrel,” grinned Khlit, “there is a notable physician in the temple of the bonpas who has devised a cure for tongue-wagging. Doubtless—after the tidings brought to the temple by the man of Bator Khan—the priests thought he was too free with their secrets.”

“A fool has paid for his folly.”

Khlit reflected moodily that Lo Ch’un had been slain in a room adjoining theirs without the sound of a struggle. They must have been within a score of feet when it was done. Yet they had not been molested. He scowled as he thought how the hand of the priests was everywhere in Khoten. Doubtless the men in the temple knew where they—Hamar and Khlit were—and, knowing, waited. For what? For the feast of the morrow, when the death of Nur-Jahan was planned?

The words of Hamar returned to his memory. They were four against many, and their foes were not to be seen.

“Devil take it all!” he grumbled, for the thing was preying on his nerves somewhat. “Let us go below and eat, minstrel. Thus we will have a full meal under our belts. And it will be better so.”

“I will not eat,” said Hamar, “but I will go with you. If the bonpas have marked Nur-Jahan’s death for the morrow we have little to fear tonight.”

With that the two descended to the tavern.

Unwatched by Lo Ch’un, a motley crowd was drinking and gorging at will. The women of the house were scattered among the benches, aiding the merriment with shrill laughter. Some looked up drunkenly at his entrance.

“Fill yourselves, dogs,” muttered Khlit, “there will be none to tally the drinks—”

He broke off abruptly and clutched Hamar’s arm. Among a crowd of men across the men he caught the veiled figure of Nur-Jahan, with bearded Chauna Singh towering at her side.

“Here be our comrades, minstrel,” he whispered. Hamar thrust his way through the crowd.

Then, as they approached the girl, she dropped her veil and smiled at them. Khlit heard Hamar draw in his breath in sharp surprise. Truly, it was a strange thing, for Nur-Jahan was a Mohammedan and it was forbidden to such to show their faces before the eyes of strange men.

Chauna Singh flushed angrily, for Nur-Jahan was wife to his lord, Sher Afghan, and it was not fitting that she should be seen by the drunken men of the brothel. He made as if to clutch her veil, but she stayed him with a whisper, speaking softly to Hamar also.

“Is the girl mad?” growled Khlit to the minstrel. “She hides herself for a day and two nights. Then, lo, she shows herself to these cattle. Look yonder!”

Hamar looked and saw the eyes of the men in the room turn to Nur-Jahan and stare hotly. The girl’s beauty stood out among the miserable women of the place in sharp contrast. A silence fell on the tavern.

Men pushed wine cups away from lips and gazed at Nur-Jahan narrow-eyed. Bearded hillmen muttered to themselves. A sheepskin-clad giant rose unsteadily, his pock-marked face flushed with drink, and lurched forward, grinning.

The fitful light of the place—from candle and hearth—gave the dark countenance of the girl a witchery that stirred the pulses of those who watched.

“She says,” the minstrel whispered to Khlit, “that she wishes these dogs to see her beauty, that they may know her tomorrow.”

“They seem little disposed to wait until the morrow, Hamar,” said Khlit grimly.

He sensed trouble in the air, for the men were pressing closer. The Khirghiz giant planted himself in front of Nur-Jahan, his small eyes alight.

“Ho, comrades!” he bellowed. “A dainty morsel is here. By the bones of Satan, this is a face to delight the gods!”

Khlit moved closer to Chauna Singh. He was angry at Nur-Jahan’s prank. Not content with the enmity of the priests, the girl had dared the lawless crew of the tavern. She smiled at them coldly. And some who stared at her moved uneasily under her glance. Here, they thought, was no common courtesan. What manner of woman was she?

Thus it happened that while some pushed forward with silent intentness, others hung back, measuring the stature of Chauna Singh and Khlit and the bearing of the girl.

“Drink, men of the caravan trails!” cried the girl in her clear, commanding voice. “It is written that wine is the sweeper-awayof-care! Give them wine,” she ordered the slaves. “Tomorrow they will see that which they will tell their children, and it will be a tale of many moons. Ha! Life is sweet when such deeds are in the air.”

Her cry pleased many of the watchers and they roared approval. “Lo Ch’un is dead—there be none to guard the wine!” cried one.

Over their heads Khlit could hear the faint wailing of the woman by the body. He glanced at Nur-Jahan curiously. Mad the girl might be, but she was fearless.

Then silence fell again as the Khirghiz drunkard stretched out a heavy hand toward Nur-Jahan. She drew back swiftly and touched Chauna Singh on the arm.

“Strike this dog,” she cried softly, “but do not slay him.”

At the words the scimitar of the Rájput flashed in front of her. No time had the Khirghiz to draw weapon. Khlit saw the scimitar turn deftly and smite the forehead of the man with the flat of the blade.

The knees of the Khirghiz bent under him and his bulk dropped heavily to the floor.

“He was a fool!” cried Nur-Jahan aloud. “Harken, men of the desert, I am she who is called Nur-Jahan, Light of the Palace. Look well, for you may not see my face again. I go from Khoten

tomorrow, at the feast of Bon. Come to the feast, for there will be a sight worth seeing.”

With that she turned swiftly and disappeared up the stairs. Chauna Singh followed with a black glance at the gaping crowd. Khlit watched until he was sure none of the caravan men would molest them further. Gradually they returned to their cups and their talk.

Khlit sought and found the joint of meat he had come for. Hamar had gone, and he ate alone, being hungry. His thoughts turned on the whim of Nur-Jahan. She had shown her face to these men willfully. They were, without doubt, devotees of Bon. Surely Nur-Jahan had a reason for what she did.

What was it? At that time Khlit did not know.

XI

The midday sun was hot over Khoten’s hovels and temples on the noon appointed as the feast of Bon. From the taverns and caravansarys issued a motley crowd—thin-boned Arabs, squat Khirghiz hillmen, hawk-faced Usbeks—a smattering of Hindus, cleanly robed. And as they pressed into the streets leading to the temple of Bon, there came the low thrumming of stone drums beaten within the building.

The sound of the drums passed through the sand-swept alleys, out beyond the groves of wild poplars, leaves a-droop from lack of wind—out to the shimmering waste of the desert of Gobi to the north and the level plain that led to the mountains of the south.

Dimly in the heat haze these mountains were to be seen— gleaming snow summits flashing into the blue of the sky. The narrow embrasures of the temple looked out upon the hills. Men whispered to each other that the fetishes of the sanctuary faced toward the mountains, where was the home of the god Bon.

About the temple courtyard a throng was gathered, pushing and elbowing for a sight of the cleared space before the gate of the structure. A group of bearers set down the palanquin of a Chinese mandarin and escorted the stout silk-clad and crimson

tulip-embroidered person of their master through the onlookers, striking aside those who stood in their way with their wands.

A continuous hubbub swelled over the monotone of the drums. By now half the men and women of the city were in the square before the temple—sleepy-eyed and quarrelsome from the revelry of the night before.

Bands of the black hats were passing through the streets. They were pale men, evil-eyed and complacent. Merchants still journeyed to the square, for it paid to be friendly with the folk of the black hat on the feast day of Bon. Votaries of the god went eagerly, driven by the blood-lust which yearned to see certain of their fellows marked for death.

In the throng were those who had come to Khoten with Nur-Jahan—Chauna Singh, watchful and silent, disdainful of the multitude of low-caste—Hamar walking as if in a trance—Khlit, apparently oblivious of what passed, but inwardly observant.

The Cossack was ill-pleased with their position. He had seen enough of the handiwork of the bonpas to know that their lives were put to the hazard. Bator Khan was dead; but other servants of the priests, he knew, were not lacking. Any Arab or Khirghiz in the throng might be the bearer of a knife destined for them.

A crowd always disturbed the Cossack of the Curved Saber. Here there was no room for swordplay—no chance to set a horse to gallop and meet an enemy as he liked to do. He put little faith in his pistols.

Left to himself, Khlit would have ventured on a dash from the city, mounted on his pony. But the party of Nur-Jahan was certainly shadowed by the priests—after the scenes in the tavern the night before there would be small difficulty in that.

So long, however, as Chauna Singh and Hamar remained with the girl, he was grimly resolved to see the matter through. He would not let the Rájput say that he had drawn back from danger.

“Give way, O born-of-a-dog and soul-of-swine!” snarled the Rájput at those in front as he drew Nur-Jahan forward.

Hamar and Khlit pressed after them.

Oaths and threats greeted their progress. But here and there were men who had been in the tavern the evening before, and these whispered to their neighbors, so that many turned to look after the girl. In this way they pushed to the first rank of watchers in the temple courtyard.

The crowd was already stirred by the ceremony of the priests. Khlit saw men staring, rigid-eyed, and others muttering fragments of prayers. The throb of the drums beat into his ears.

“It grows time for the servants of Bon to speak to us,” he heard a Dungan say. “The dance is near its ending.”

For the first time he had sight of what was going on in front of the temple.

An array of the black hats was sounding long trumpets, echoing the note of the drums—an insistent clamor that harped upon one note insidiously. Before them whirled and tossed a throng of the masked priests. In the center of the dances was the form of a woman, bare of clothing to the waist and streaked with blood.

Khlit watched the scene indifferently. It was evil mummery, this prostrating before a hidden god. Almost he laughed at panting priests in their painted masks. But, hearing the beat of the drums, he kept silence.

And, as at a signal from within the temple, the dancers ceased, flinging themselves on the ground.

A voice issued from the dark gateway of the temple, a voice measured and calm.

“On the summits of Himachal,” it said, “is the abode of Bon, the Destroyer. There is the seat of happiness, the shrine of the ages. In the silence of the mountains the avalanches reveal the anger and power of the gods.”

“Himachal!” the shout was taken up by the crowd. “In Himachal is life and the blessed death!”

Khlit caught Chauna Singh’s eye and smiled without merriment. “Has Nur-Jahan come hither to be slain easily, as a white dove is caught by a falcon?” he growled.

Chauna Singh shook his head moodily.

“Nay, khan, I know not. It was her will to come. The city is guarded and we may not escape. But here is an evil place. Yet would she come, saying that we might yet live. Could I do otherwise? I am her man.”

“Does she hope to awe these carrion with the name of Jahangir?”

“Nay,” the Rájput grunted distastefully. “The Mogul is a stripling—and his power is distant.”

“Then, what will we do?”

“Watch!”

“Aye—but not for long.” Khlit motioned over his shoulder. Men of the black hats were edging through the crowd. “Look yonder.”

“I see.” Chauna Singh turned his back deliberately. “Nur-Jahan has ordered that where she goes we must follow. Mark that, khan.”

The voice within the temple rose to a hoarse cry. Khlit under-stood little of what it said, but the crowd surged excitedly.

“And the way to the hills is open,” he heard. “Whoever offers his life to Bon—be he slave or khan—he will be put upon the path that leads past the shrine of Kedernath, by the lake of Lamdok Tso, to the home of the gods—”

A man sprang forward from the throng and cast himself in the sand before the woman.

“A sacrifice!” the gathering roared. “A life given to Bon.” Khlit saw the priests go to the man and take his weapons from his belt. Then he was led within the temple.

The Cossack snarled at the sight. Devilwork, he thought. The impulse to cast away life in religious frenzy was bred in the blood of the men around him.

Nur-Jahan’s hand clutched him swiftly.

“Come,” he heard her whisper. “In this way we may win free!”

He caught at his sword-hilt, for the black hats about him had

pressed closer. Nur-Jahan’s words had set him to thinking swiftly.

He saw the girl, followed by her companions, step from the crowd.

Khlit stooped in the throng for a moment. Then he sprang erect and leaped after the others.

Nur-Jahan’s silvery voice came to his ears. The girl was standing among the priests before the gate of the temple.

“A sacrifice to Bon,” she called clearly. “I, Nur-Jahan the fair, offer myself to go into the mountains.”

He saw Hamar’s sensitive face pale and Chauna Singh scowl, as he joined them. The priests stared at them from their masks. A roar broke from the crowd.

“It is Nur-Jahan!” he heard. “She of the tavern! Here is a fitting one to wander into the snows!”

The cries were taken up by others, stirred by zeal. Khlit wondered if it was for this that the girl had shown herself in the tavern. As he wondered, he was caught by the priests.

“To Himachal!” the crowd roared, as the black hats hesitated, glancing at the gate. “We will see them put afoot and weaponless at the foot of the holy hills. Let the men accompany her. Ho—she will be well attended in death!”

The eyes of the crowd were fixed in the black gate of the temple where was the hidden priest of Bon. A brief silence. Then:

“Let Nur-Jahan be the sacrifice! Let the gods have the flower of the Mogul! We will see her put afoot in the hills, in the snows! None may molest her—she belongs to the gods!”

It was the cry of the camel-men who had seen the beauty of the girl the night before.

The shout was taken up by the multitude. The priests stepped forward and seized the four. At this there was a roar of approval.

“Bon has taken the woman!” shrieked a man. “Her limbs will wither in the snows!”

Khlit saw the girl poised proudly among the black priests, veiled head high. He saw Chauna Singh’s scimitar snatched from him and felt his own pistols jerked from his belt. His scabbard hung empty at his side.

“To the camels!” cried the crowd.

They were led by the bonpas to the waiting beasts. They were not molested, for it was the law of the priesthood that the sacrifices were inviolate from harm by human hands.

Nur-Jahan was cast upon the back of a kneeling camel. Khlit and the others followed her. At the eager urging of the throng, the beasts, surrounded by mounted priests and their followers, were put into motion away from the temple, to the south.

A black cloth was cast over Khlit’s head and made fast.

For the rest of that day and the night the camels did not slacken their pace. The next day many hands drew Khlit from the beast and mounted him upon a horse.

They rode forward again—and upward. Still upward. The warmth of the foothills gave place to the chill of the mountain slope.

XII

All things that die on Himachal, and dying think of his snows, are blessed.

In a hundred ages of the gods the glories of Himachal could not be told. Of Himachal, where Shiva lived and the Ganges falls from the foot of Vishnu like the slender thread of a lotus flower.

Paradise is to be found on Himachal—even by the beast that

bears the name of Mansarowar. Hymn to Himachal

The shadows of the mountain slope were deepening, and the wind that whispered down the pass was cold. Gaunt pine trees reared overhead. Miles below, the level glow of the setting sun was still on the plain.

Silence reigned in the forest—a silence broken only by the fitful brush of pine branches, one against the other. The snow that had glittered up the pass was a dull gray. In the distance, to right and left, massive peaks reared their heads, and their snow crests caught the last glimmer of the sun.

Standing in the ravine, Nur-Jahan and her companions watched a cavalcade move out on the plain. The tiny figures progressed slowly across the brown expanse, horse and camel

barely to be distinguished at that distance. Light glinted from the pinpoint of a spear or sword.

Then, as if by magic, the sun passed from the plain. The cavalcade vanished in the shadows.

Nur-Jahan turned to the men.

“With Allah are the keys of the unseen,” she said softly. “Yon-der go the priests of Bon. Here we be, cast upon the mountain. What say you?”

Chauna Singh brushed his hand across his eyes. Long muffled in a cloth, the watching had strained his good eye.

“Nay, mir,” he said slowly. “In my mind there is a thought. It is that the evil dogs have left some of their breed to spy upon us here.”

Hamar roused himself from his reverie. “The Rájput speaks truth, Nur-Jahan,” he assented meditatively. “The servants of Bon are accustomed to keep watch upon the men they cast out to die. If we turn back, our heads will be cut from our shoulders and sent to the Khoten temple. We have offered ourselves as sacrifices. We must go forward.”

“To what?” snarled Chauna Singh. “Over our heads is the snow. It would be the work of four days to pass the peaks, by way of the lake of Lamdok Tso, to the further side—four days for strong men, with food and weapons. Nur-Jahan is a woman—and we have not eaten since sunrise.”

“Nay, more, Chauna Singh,” laughed the girl. “Your weapons are in the hands of the bonpas, who have taken our horses. Recall the word of the priest who said our way lies onward, or death awaits us.”

“It was your will, Nur-Jahan,” observed Hamar, “that we should do this. Wherefore?”

“Blind!” mocked the girl. “Allah has given you the gift of song, yet you are but a dreamer. Nay, we could not stand in Khoten. The knives of the black priests were already drawn for our slaying when I came forward from the crowd.”

“A swift death is better than to be food for rooks,” muttered Chauna Singh.

“Yet Sher Afghan gave you charge over me—to safeguard my life.”

“Aye, Nur-Jahan—it is so.” Chauna Singh bent his head calmly. “And as I have promised, I will do.”

“It is written,” sighed the minstrel, “that death among friends is like to a feast.”

“And it is also written,” said the girl, “that Allah knows what is before us. Allah weakens the stratagems of misbelievers—and beyond the summits lies Kashmir.”

She turned swiftly on Khlit, who had been moodily silent. “What say you, old warrior?”

The Cossack stretched his big frame.

“I?” He laughed low. “I thirst to have yonder carrion priests at my sword’s end.”

“Ho, old khan, you are not faint of heart.” She skipped from his side up the pass a pace. “Come, Hamar, Chauna Singh. Time passes and we must press on. We will see the heights where the god Bon dwells. Come, are you beasts of burden, to be whipped? Lead, Chauna Singh. I will follow with the khan.”

The Rájput strode into the twilight without further word. Hamar accompanied him as best he could. The girl drew her khalat about her and followed, motioning Khlit to her side.

The sides of the gorge frowned down on them. There was no trail, the pass being rocky. The Cossack wondered if men hidden in the pines were watching them. The girl touched his arm.

“Harken, khan,” she whispered. “Know you where we are?”

Khlit shook his head. The mountains were strange to him.

“We be below the Lake of Lamdok Tso, the blue lake. Here is where the votaries are led from Khoten in the evil ceremonies of the black priests. By the Lake of Lamdok Tso runs the pass of Kandrum, which leads from Kashmir. Hither we came to Khoten. There is no refuge for us in the pass—but at Lamdok Tso a man awaits us.”

As Khlit was silent, she continued.

“Hamar came from Agra with the message from Jahangir, the Mogul—” she lingered on the name softly—“to hasten back to him. Chosen warriors of his are posted near to Leh to meet us. But Hamar fell in with a man of Sher Afghan in the outskirts of the town of Leh. The fellow said that Sher Afghan, the Lion-Slayer, would send a message to Chauna Singh—and to me.”

“Where is this Lion-Slayer of yours?” grunted Khlit. “Will he not aid you against the devil priests?”

“Nay, you know not our people, khan.” In the gloom he saw her smile. “My lord is proud—and I have fled from his side. I love him not—how may it be, when I was betrothed to Jahangir? After my flight with Chauna Singh, Sher Afghan would not lift a hand to aid me.”

“Yet he sent the Rájput.”

“Aye.” The dark head tossed proudly. “I am honored of many men. Chauna Singh lives but to serve me—and Sher Afghan. He rode after me from the camp of my lord, saying that Sher Afghan had said that I should not go unattended. It is well.”

Khlit was silent, turning the matter over in his mind. Verily, these were strange folk, proud and swift to act. Their love was as quick as their hatred.

“Hamar said to the man of Sher Afghan,” continued the girl, “that if his lord would send a message, it might be dispatched to the Lake of Lamdok Tso, in the Kandrum Pass—for we must return by the pass to Kashmir. Now, when Hamar, riding but slowly, for he has a weak body, passed the trail by the border of the lake, he found the messenger already there. Sher Afghan had sent word swiftly.”

“That was the time of one moon agone,” observed Khlit.

“If it were a hundred days the man would still be there. And if we can gain the Kandrum trail, by the lake, we will find him— with food and a horse.”

“Aye, food,” growled the Cossack, who had already tightened his belt.

“Does Chauna Singh know this?” he asked after a while.

“Nay, why not?” said the girl lightly. Khlit glanced at her but could not see her face in the dim light. “Say not I have told you, khan,” she added.

“In the mountains such as these,” he meditated, “a man must carry food with him, for there is little game to be had. Either food—or a bringer of meat.”

He halted, despite the girl’s impatient exclamation.

“Go you with Chauna Singh,” he continued. “I will follow— presently.”

“May Allah the merciful forgive me!” cried Nur-Jahan. “It is the hour of sunset prayer.”

With a deft movement she undid the white veil from her head and spread it on the earth at her feet. Khlit fumbled under his heavy sheepskin coat. Nur-Jahan saw that he drew forth some-thing that gleamed whitely in the twilight. Seeing it, she caught her breath.

“How came that here, khan?”

“Hey, little songbird,” the Cossack laughed, “where else than beneath the tail of my coat? Think you the men of Bon could rid me of this?”

He swung his curved sword viciously about his head.

“It is good to feel it thus. Nay, I slipped it from scabbard in the throng in front of the temple and none saw it done.”

“Whither go you?” whispered Nur-Jahan, for Khlit had turned away.

“To see if the servants of the black priests follow us,” he growled. “If it is so, then we may have food. If I come not back within an hour, go you ahead with the two.”

Nur-Jahan watched his tall figure fade into the gloom down the ravine. She called softly to Chauna Singh to linger and sank to her knees on the white veil, facing, as was the law, toward Mecca.

There was no cry of the muezzin to accompany her prayer. Nothing except the rising drone of wind in the treetops overhead, where the crests of the pines swayed and lifted.

When she completed her prayer she arose and joined her waiting companions, drawing the khalat close about her slender form, for the night wind was cold. Briefly she told the Rájput whither Khlit had gone. They watched the ravine to the rear, while darkness merged the outlines of tree and boulder. Stars twinkled out over their heads.

Chauna Singh was stirring impatiently when a form appeared beside them and they heard the Cossack’s boots grating in the stones.

When he came nearer they made out that he held something in his hand, something bulky, that moved of its own accord. Chauna Singh bent closer. Then he stretched out his arm and touched what was on Khlit’s arm.

“A bird!” whispered the minstrel.

“Nay,” corrected the Rájput. “A falcon—a goshawk, unless I mistake its head. Whence came this, khan?”

“A rider of the black priests held it on his wrist, Chauna Singh. Lo, here is a getter of meat—if there be game hereabouts.” He stroked the hooded and shackled bird, which clung to the gaunt-let. “The men of Bon follow us—but they know not one of their number is missing. The horse escaped me. The man lies back among the rocks.”

XIII

Dawn flooded into the gorge as the sun gleamed on the snow peaks overhead.

There was no mist as in the valleys of the foothills, yet the sun was long in dispelling the chill that clung to the rocks. The faces of the four were dark with chilled blood. Nevertheless, the light brought a certain amount of cheer.

They felt the brief exhilaration of those who have watched through the night and feel the first warmth of the day in their veins. They had been stumbling ahead for the last few hours, making little progress, but Chauna Singh and Khlit had forbidden a halt. Sleep came with rest, and the two warriors knew that sleep, on stomachs long empty, lowered the vitality.

There were circles under Nur-Jahan’s fine eyes and her little feet limped in their leather slippers. Hamar’s wrinkled face was a shade thinner. Of the four, he missed the absence of food the least, owing to his ascetic habits.

Khlit and Chauna Singh showed no trace of hardship so far. The night’s march meant little to them and they were saving their strength with the experience of men accustomed to the hazards of forced journeys.

“We have not gone far, khan,” muttered the Rájput.

Khlit cast a keen glance above and below. They were still in the forest belt, with the snowline a bit nearer. He understood now why they had been placed in the ravine by the priests of Bon. The rock sides of the gorge were sheer. And impassable. They must go forward, or back.

And the men below would see that they did not go back.

“Hamar says,” went on Chauna Singh, “that the pass leads up over the snowline to the valley of the blue lake—Lamdok Tso. It is pleasing to Bon, the Destroyer, that his victims perish near the blue lake.”

“One has perished already,” laughed Khlit grimly.

“May he be born for a thousand years in the bodies of foul toads!” amended the Rájput. “Harken, khan. Let us loose the falcon. Soon we shall be above the place where game is to be found.”

“Presently. Nur-Jahan must press ahead now. When she tires we will unhood the goshawk.” Khlit tightened the shackles of the sulking bird. “We have a greater enemy than hunger.”

“Cold,” assented Chauna Singh. His glance lingered on the form of the woman ahead of them. “So be it, khan.”

They advanced up the defile steadily. Khlit, although he watched closely, saw no sign of those who were following. They had fallen back, he reasoned, trusting to the gorge to keep the four pent in.

So far they had advanced for a night and the part of a day. Nur-Jahan had told him that the Lake of Lamdok Tso lay a journey of

two nights, two days and part of a third night from their starting point. And they still had the snow to face.

Khlit thought grimly that if the goshawk failed them it would go ill with the four. Yet he saw no chance of turning back. News of their venture would have spread through the foothills, and even if they succeeded in avoiding the guardians of the pass to their rear they would have no place of refuge to seek.

His talk with Chauna Singh convinced him that the Rájput did not know of the man awaiting them at the lake, in the Kandrum pass. Nur-Jahan, then, had not told her follower what she had whispered to Khlit. Hamar knew.

The minstrel, his vina slung across his shoulders, kept pace with them silently. Like most men of small frame, once the first weariness had passed off, his limbs carried him forward lightly— as easily as the two stronger, who had more weight to carry.

Nur-Jahan’s strength surprised Khlit, who knew not that the Persian had been a wanderer in many lands before she met Jahangir. When the sun was high overhead that day and the woman’s steps began to falter, he unhooded the goshawk, slipping the leash from the bird’s claws.

Here was no opportunity to ply the art of falconry. They had sighted no quarry on the mountain slopes to fly the goshawk at. Khlit could only free the bird and pray that it would sight game for itself.

The four halted, watching the falcon ascend in wide circles. It rose until it had become a dark speck against the blue of the sky. Still it circled.

“Allah be merciful! Grant that it find prey,” uttered Nur-Jahan, eyes bent aloft.

“And near at hand,” added Chauna Singh, pointing to the rock walls that shut them in on both sides. Hamar said nothing, watching the bird with the calm of the fatalist.

“It must be well hungered,” observed the Rájput, who under-stood the pastime of falconry, “and it will not return until it has sighted quarry. Ho—look yonder!”

The goshawk had darted downward, wings folded. When it was once more well within sight it fluttered and circled, quartering across its previous course.

“It has sighted quarry!” cried Chauna Singh, moved out of his habitual quiet. “Now, it seeks it out—nay, it points to the thicket ahead of us. Ho—it strikes!”

The bird had disappeared among a clump of trees at one side of the ravine, some distance ahead. Chauna Singh and Khlit ran forward, scrambling over rocks and plunging across a freshet to the trees.

“Shiva send it be a mountain sheep. The bird was hungry!”

Pushing into the bushes, the two cast about for the falcon.

Presently the rustling of leaves attracted their attention and Chauna Singh pointed to where the bird was tearing at the body of a hare, shredding the flesh with its beak, fierce eyes gleaming redly at them.

“A hare!” growled the Rájput, angrily. “A hare among four!”

Nevertheless, he tore the bird from its hold on the warm quarry, hooded and shackled it. When Nur-Jahan and Hamar came up, Khlit had prepared the flesh of the animal, roughly, for eating. The girl shivered at sight of the blood.

“Eat,” said Chauna Singh, almost roughly. “It is not only food—but warmth.”

Obediently, she swallowed some mouthfuls of the meat, until sudden sickness stayed her. Hamar refused his portion.

“What need have I of such?” he said tranquilly. “My strength lies not in meat.”

Whereupon Chauna Singh, staring, put aside the minstrel’s share for Nur-Jahan. What remained he placed in a fold of his tunic. He and Khlit ate sparingly and urged the others ahead.

The ravine they had been following through many valleys gave way to the broad shoulder of the mountain. The last trees disappeared. The wind that pressed steadily in their faces grew colder. Standing in the open, they saw a score of mighty peaks stretching away on their left hand.

On their right Khlit saw a small pile of stone, topped by a flat slab, on which were graven some signs unknown to him.

“A shrine of the god Bon,” whispered Nur-Jahan, breathing heavily because of the thin air into which they had come.

“Here be none but the god!” cried Hamar aloud. He pointed down the gorge behind him. “There our guards wait. Ahead is the heart of Himachal, home of the many-faced gods!”

Khlit glanced at him sharply. The man’s eyes were glowing somberly and his voice was shrill. The Cossack wondered if the lack of food had not done him harm.

Nevertheless, it was Hamar who took the lead, guiding them upward among the ridges.

At sunset Nur-Jahan’s knees gave way and she sank to the ground, uttering no cry. When Khlit and Chauna Singh touched her they saw that she was shivering.

The two glanced at each other significantly. Khlit took off his sheepskin svitza and cast it over the girl. Seeking a sheltered spot among the rocks, they rested, placing the girl between the three men.

Khlit fell asleep at once, to be roused shortly by Hamar. Chauna Singh had also slept. The Rájput gathered the passive woman in his arms and strode forward, Hamar leading.

In this fashion, relieved at times by Khlit, the man carried Nur-Jahan through the night. He spoke no word, nor did he offer to rest. Only his heavy breathing testified to the effort Chauna Singh was making.

The silence of the higher spaces closed around the four. Khlit, plodding after the Rájput, thought of the sacrifice Nur-Jahan had offered at Khoten to the gods of Himachal. Were there gods on Himachal? The icy fingers of cold plucked at his veins—the girl had his coat—and he shook his head savagely.

They had ventured into forbidden places, he thought. Here they were cast upon the Roof of the World. Their lives had passed out of their keeping.

From the darkness ahead came the sound of a soft melody. The wind carried it clearly to Khlit. It was Hamar, striking upon his vina.

XIV

There are three things that change not—the will of the gods, the mountains of Himachal, and the word of a Rájput.

Bengal proverb

The Lake of Lamdok Tso lies in the heart of the Himalayas, below the line of perpetual snow, and it is said by some that the sacred Indus, called by the disciples of Bon the Sing Chin Kamba—Lion’s Mouth—rises therein.

It is written that the Indus, blessing the happy land of Kashmir and moistening the purple iris fields from the Dhal Lake to the Grove of Sweet Breezes, falls from the skies through the waters of Lamdok Tso.

In the time of the Mogul Jahangir, the Kandrum Pass, leading from Leh to Khoten, ran by the left bank of the lake. Midway along the shore the trail crossed a promontory of rocks. This height could be seen from both ends of Lamdok Tso.

And so it happened that when Nur-Jahan and her companions wandered down from the snowline on aching feet bound by strips of Chauna Singh’s turban, into the Kandrum gorge, they saw ahead of them the pinpoint of a fire, as if hung above the shore of the lake.

Nur-Jahan sighted it first, with a low cry.

“Look yonder!” she whispered, for her lips were stiff with cold. “A fire—and aid. It is not far.”

Hamar halted at her cry, peering ahead through the darkness. Khlit swore joyfully, although weakly, for since the slaying of the hare they had walked steadily for a day and a half. Chauna Singh had not spoken since the dawn of the last day. He had carried Nur-Jahan when she could not walk and aided her when she ventured afoot, her slippers bound by the cloth from his turban.

In this fashion they had crossed the snow field, eating the last of the meat as they went and satisfying their thirst with snow.

Hamar had not eaten. How the minstrel retained his strength Khlit did not know—not understanding the control over their bodies possessed by the ascetics of India.

As they pressed forward toward the fire he pondered. Nur-Jahan had spoken the truth when she said that the messenger from Sher Afghan would wait. If he were another such as Chauna Singh he would remain in the pass until he had lost hope of meeting those to whom he was sent.

Yet what was the message he bore? Hamar had seen him, spoken to him, but had said naught to Nur-Jahan of the message. It was possible the other had wished to deliver it to no one but the woman.

Another thing. Here was a fire—some food—and a horse. But there also was the man who possessed them. How were five to live through the journey down the mountains to Kashmir? No other dwellers were in the heights. The chances of meeting with other travelers was slight. And four of the five were already greatly weakened.

Even the falcon was gone. When the meat gave out they had unhooded it again, but the bird had flown far from where they were.

Up the rising ground to the promontory they went, as quickly as might be. On their left hand the cold surface of the lake dropped further beneath them. On the right a precipice rose sheer. As they advanced the fire loomed larger—grew into a nest of flames, by which slept a man wrapped in a heavy cloak.

A rock, dislodged by Khlit’s boots, fell into the lake and the man awoke. He sprang to his feet, staring into the darkness—a short, bearded warrior, clad in fine mail, who fingered the hilt of a jeweled sword.

Chauna Singh and Nur-Jahan stumbled into the light and the man by the fire gave a cry of recognition. As Khlit stepped forward to warm himself at the flames Hamar joined him. Chauna Singh and the girl had paused by the stranger. They spoke together in a tongue Khlit did not understand.

He saw that Hamar watched out of narrow eyes, swaying the while with the movement of one who has been in motion for so long that his limbs are not readily brought to rest. The minstrel’s eyes were sunk in his head, but they were quick and alert.

Nur-Jahan had caught the arm of the messenger and was peering into his face intently. She had cast away her veil and the dark hair flooded about her pale cheeks.

Khlit saw the man glance from her to Chauna Singh. Then silence fell upon the group.

“Now we will hear the message,” whispered Hamar. “He would not tell me.”

Khlit had turned to the fire, when he heard a cry from Nur-Jahan. In it dismay and joy were strangely mingled. He saw the girl draw back as if she did not wish the others to behold her face. Chauna Singh thrust his scarred face close to the man by the fire, questioning him fiercely. Hamar laughed softly.

“The Lion-Slayer is dead, khan,” he whispered. “Sher Afghan has felt the hand of the Mogul—he who stood in the way of the love of the Mogul—he was sent for, resisted, and the men of Jahangir slew him in the fight that followed. That is the message. But give heed. There is a debt yet to be paid. The threads of fate must be knitted together.”

“What mean you, minstrel?” growled the Cossack.

“This!” Hamar laughed again. “I have known Sher Afghan. And Chauna Singh is his man, pledged to serve him to the death. When Nur-Jahan fled from the lord, he hated her—for his pride was stricken. And so he sent Chauna Singh. That much I know. Wherefore was the Rájput sent? Sher Afghan knew the love bond between the woman and Jahangir. He is not the man to see Nur-Jahan belong to another after his death.”

Khlit scanned the group by the fire, frowning. Chauna Singh and his comrade had ceased talking. The Rájput passed his hand across his eyes—once—and fumbled at his girdle. It was the gesture of a man feeling for a sword.

“See you that, khan?” muttered the minstrel. “Sher Afghan is dead. Chauna Singh has sworn an oath to his lord. Nay, I can

guess what it was! Sher Afghan, as well as Jahangir, loved Nur-Jahan—and love knows no pity—”

Khlit had left his side. The Cossack strode to the girl, who had drawn nearer the precipice, looking out over the lake. But Chauna Singh was as quick as he.

The Rájput had placed his hand on the girl’s shoulder, not roughly, but gently. Khlit caught his wrist and held it firmly. The eyes of Chauna Singh burned into his own, the blind eye dull and lifeless. Nur-Jahan turned and seeing the two men, was silent.

“Nay, Chauna Singh,” growled the Cossack. “Are you a man to do a thing such as this?”

The lips of the Rájput curled angrily.

“Back, khan,” he snarled. “Fool of the steppe! This is a matter which concerns you not.”

Nur-Jahan drew a quick breath. Hamar and the other stared, surprised into silence. Khlit’s gaze did not flinch.

“The woman came to me in the desert,” he said calmly. “We have shared bread and salt. You and I, Chauna Singh, have fought the same foes. We be true men—you and I. You will not harm the woman.”

The Rájput wrenched himself free.

“I have sworn an oath, O one-without-understanding!” he hissed. “Is the word of a Rájput to his lord to be broken? Nay, since my birth it has not been so. When Sher Afghan’s death should be known to me, I swore that Nur-Jahan should die. Thus does widow of the Raj join her lord. The lake will give her a grave. Back! I have sworn. Ho—” Khlit had drawn his sword— “Ramdoor Singh!”

Fiercely the Rájput cast himself empty-handed upon Khlit. As swiftly the Cossack struck. Chauna Singh’s turban had been used to cover the feet of his mistress and his head was bare. The curved blade fell upon his temple, sending him reeling to the earth.

As he struck, Khlit had deftly turned his weapon, so the flat of the blade had met the other’s brow.

The next instant, at a warning cry from Nur-Jahan, he had turned in time to ward a powerful sweep of Ramdoor Singh’s

weapon. The stocky warrior leaped back from Khlit’s counter-thrust and the two circled warily, striving to get the light of the fire in the other’s eyes.

Again the weapons clashed. Weariness smote through Khlit’s lean frame. He saw the dark face of the other framed against the black expanse of darkness over the lake.

Then Ramdoor Singh cast up his arms. His sword flew from his grasp. His body sank backward and away—and Khlit was gazing into the dark where his foe had been.

A second passed—and he heard a splash over the precipice, far beneath. Hamar came to his side and peered over the edge of the cliff.

“Ramdoor Singh wore mail,” the minstrel said slowly. “His death will be swift. I saw him slip on a little stone at the edge. Truly, the ways of fate are past knowing.”

XV

Khlit had seated himself on a stone, for he was weary, nursing his sword. And as he did so he watched Nur-Jahan. The woman had Chauna Singh’s bleeding head on her knee. With strips torn from her undergarments and moistened in melted snow she bathed the dark bruise where Khlit’s blade had crushed the skin.

From the other side of the fire Hamar watched, his thin frame sunken together with fatigue, his eyes bright as with fever. Chauna Singh stirred, moaned, and lifted a hand that trembled to his head.

“Ramdoor Singh!” he muttered. “Ramdoor Singh—to me! Ha—am I blind?”

“Nay, Chauna Singh,” said the girl softly, “you are hurt.”

The lips of the Rájput moved and his good eye opened, only to close at once. With returning consciousness the warrior stifled his groans. But the Cossack saw that he was in pain.

“Ramdoor Singh is dead—in the waters of Lamdok Tso,” went on Nur-Jahan, “and you would be likewise but for the mercy of

the khan. He stayed his hand when he might have slain. That is well, for I would speak with you, Chauna Singh. Look at me!”

The man opened his eye and peered about him dully. A wrinkle of pain crossed his swollen forehead.

“I cannot see—yet,” he said calmly.

Nur-Jahan searched his bearded face intently, as if striving to read therein what she wanted to know.

“Tell me, Chauna Singh, warrior of Jhelam, man of Sher Afghan, who is dead—is it your will still to slay me? When have I done you ill? Nay, I thought that you had love for Nur-Jahan, the betrothed of Jahangir the Mogul.”

“By the sack of Chitore, I swore it—that I would safeguard you for him that was Sher Afghan, protect you and keep your honor with my life—until the death of my lord. I made him this oath when he set me after you, knowing that his life was no longer safe. Then, when I had news of his death, I was to slay you. By the sin of the sack of Chitore, on the word of a Rájput, it was sworn.”

Silence followed upon this. Khlit, meditating, recalled the

speech of Chauna Singh—since life was in Ind, a Rájput has kept faith.

And Nur-Jahan had suspected something of this, for she had not told Chauna Singh that a man of Sher Afghan awaited them. Chauna Singh had done his best to keep his oath. Nay—knowing the man, Khlit felt this to be true—he would still strive to carry out his word.

“What care I for Jahangir,” the Rájput muttered fiercely, “the Mogul—a Muslim without doubt—a stripling? Nay, Sher Afghan is dead.”

Nur-Jahan stroked his forehead idly with the cloth. Fatigue had drawn the flesh of her round face close upon the bones—yet had increased the beauty of the lovely mouth and dark eyes.

“The time came,” spoke Nur-Jahan softly, “and you attacked me, Chauna Singh. If I live, I shall be mistress of many thousand

swords. Will you not forget and have the honor that I can give you?”

“I will not forget.”

“You cannot carry out your promise to—to Sher Afghan. Unwillingly I was forced to cross the threshold of the Lion-Slayer’s home. Chauna Singh, my heart has been in the keeping of Jahangir—although I have seen him not for years. We were betrothed. Allah’s mercy may bring me safe to the court of the Mogul. Think upon that, Chauna Singh—and say if you will not forget. You have not known the bond of love?”

“Aye, for my lord. He was a true man.”

“And you can be to me what you were to him.”

A mute shake of the head was her answer.

“We have shared peril together, Chauna Singh.”

The Rájput was silent, his dark face impassive.

“Harken, Chauna Singh—” the beautiful head lifted proudly— “it is Mir-un-nissa who asks, Nur-Jahan, Light of the Palace and Flower of the World. I ask it of you. Forget the oath.”

“It may not be.”

Across the fire Khlit saw Hamar watching keenly what passed. The face of the minstrel was inscrutable. A thought came to Khlit. Chauna Singh would be faithful to his word. And this must cost him his life.

Nur-Jahan could not carry the wounded man down the mountain slopes to safety. Chauna Singh was strong, and the wound was not severe. The girl’s life would not be safe in his company.

Khlit had discovered Ramdoor Singh’s horse picketed in a clump of willows not far from the fire—and some dried dates and rice in the saddlebags. Enough to get them alive into Kashmir. But they could not take Chauna Singh.

What then? Leave him by Lamdok Tso? That meant death, for the warrior was half starved, and hurt, and travelers in the Kandrum pass were few.

It was for Nur-Jahan to decide, thought Khlit. And he watched the girl. She shook back the dark hair from her eyes and stretched out her small hand.

“Give me the curved sword, khan.”

Khlit handed her the blade without a word. The girl fingered it quietly. Then laid it against the side of Chauna Singh’s throat. The Rájput gave no sign he had heard, or felt.

“Look at me, Chauna Singh,” she said.

The man shook his head slightly.

“I cannot see. The hurt is above my eye.”

“You can feel. I hold the curved sword of the khan, Khlit. Speak, Chauna Singh! Since you will not forget the oath, you must choose. Shall it be death here, at my hand—or to be left when we go down the pass at dawn? As you choose, it shall be.”

Chauna Singh raised himself unsteadily on one arm.

“I do not offer you life, Chauna Singh—for I know that you may not be bought. Choose!”

The Rájput laughed and lay back on the earth wearily.

“Shall I be food for the ravens, Nur-Jahan? Nay, let it be death by the sword. It is well. And then the waters of the lake.”

The girl brushed the sword against his throat. And Khlit saw her smile.

“Give heed,” she said softly. “Your life is mine. You have said it. And—I spare it. I have taken from Sher Afghan the life of his follower that was his. And I have given you fresh life. Remember—for it is a debt—and you are a man of the Raj.”

No muscle moved in the warrior’s face. In the silence Khlit heard the murmur of water against the lake shore beneath them.

“It is a debt, Chauna Singh. Your life is mine, and I am safe henceforth from harm at your hand. Some day you will pay back the debt. That is the way of the Raj.” She turned to Khlit wearily. “You have found food, khan. We must eat and sleep. For we must be on our way at dawn.”

Khlit wondered but said nothing as he took back his sword. For the first time in many days he saw Hamar eat—but sparingly.

So it happened that when the pale dawn touched the peaks above them and the faint reflections took shape in the dark pool of Lamdok Tso, Nur-Jahan had Chauna Singh placed upon the horse and they set their faces toward Kashmir. Now Chauna Singh’s

scarred face was somber, for he saw nothing of the dawn. And Hamar, walking before them, did not make music upon his vina.

“Here is talk of a debt,” Khlit heard the minstrel mutter, “but who shall give the gods what is owing to them?”

XVI

It had rained for a day and a night and part of the next day. Hamar, who led the four, shivered beneath his thin garment. The horse under Nur-Jahan and Chauna Singh slipped and floundered down the mud of the trail.

Khlit, walking beside the minstrel, moved ahead mechanically, as he had done for many days. He could see little of their surroundings, for a wall of rain closed them in. He noticed that the crags and ravines of the mountains had given way to dark green woods, traversed by foaming freshets. The air was warmer. This was well, he thought, for Nur-Jahan could not have lived through the rain, had the cold of the mountain peaks been upon them.

He guessed—since the minstrel was silent and Nur-Jahan in the stupor of weariness—that they were among foothills. But as yet there was no sign of dwelling or human being.

Chauna Singh had not spoken since the night of Ramdoor Singh’s death. But Khlit fancied that the Rájput’s sight had healed in his good eye. Nur-Jahan seemed to have no fear of Chauna Singh since she had spared the warrior’s life. She had laid a debt upon the man.

They were content to follow Hamar, who had said that there was a building near at hand.

Khlit was weary, and he knew that Nur-Jahan’s slender strength was only upheld by the thought of her nearness to Jahangir and the Mogul court. Hamar’s endurance amazed him— when he roused himself to think collectively. The man pressed ahead as if driven by a will more than human—stumbling and shivering as he went, but with eyes fastened on the rain mist in front of them.

In this manner out of the breast of Himachal came the four— to where a wall loomed out of the mist. A wall of stone, carved with characters unknown to Khlit.

Hamar greeted the stone inscription with a glad cry and hastened his steps, turning off to one side of the way, to follow the wall which stretched before them, endlessly graven with the carven letters.

Chauna Singh had not looked up.

“Here is the place we seek!” croaked the minstrel. “Lo, the prayers to a great god are upon the stone. Come, we must hasten! We have been long.”

And he shivered again, raising trembling hands to his head. The man’s eyes were alight as if from fever. Khlit thought that it was a strange fever—not knowing the manner of strength which had sustained the fragile man for so long.

Above their heads the dark pile of a building took shape amid the rain. It was lofty, rising from a walled courtyard. A tower surmounted the gateway.

For an instant the rain dwindled, and, a fresh wind springing up, Khlit saw that the wall they had been following shielded a cliff. The mass of the building they had come to lay against the edge of the cliff.

Out and below them he glimpsed a level plain cut by a winding river.

“The valley of the Indus!” cried Nur-Jahan, stirring in the Rájput’s hold. “We must be near to Leh!”

Hamar laughed and stretched his thin arms overhead.

“Aye—near!” he muttered. “A slave upon a buffalo might ride to Leh within two days—but we are not at Leh. Ho, between us and there be the men of Jahangir. But we be here. Come, we are late!”

With that he hurried under the gate into the courtyard, pulling at the bridle of the horse. As he did so the rain closed in again, shutting off the sight of the valley. Khlit stumbled after the horse. But within the court he hesitated.

No men were to be seen. No windows showed in the stone walls which disappeared into the mist overhead. Shadows wreathed the corners. Before them was an iron-studded door. Complete silence reigned in the place.

For a moment the mind of the Cossack was prey to illusion. He had a fancy that their week’s journey had taken them nowhere— that they were still at Khoten. A chord of memory had been touched and wrought the illusion. Then again, in the shadows of the court he fancied shapes appeared and moved.

Against the wall was a shadowy form, monstrous and cold. It was an animal of gigantic form—or was it an animal? He had heard priests tell of Ganesh, the elephant-headed god, and Hanuman, the monkey-god.

Then Khlit shook his head savagely and saw that what he be-held was a stone image at one side of the door—an elephant of red sandstone with a figure mounted astride its neck.

Other shadows issued from the door—a light gleamed within. The people of the place had sighted them and were coming out. Khlit saw Nur-Jahan slip from the horse. It was well, he thought, for the woman must be faint. And he swore gruffly, because he had shivered again.

Then a gray shadow wheeled and brushed past him. Khlit drew back, staring. Surely this was Chauna Singh bent over the neck of the horse, riding from the place!

He drew his hand across his brow, cursing. The form was gone. But hoofs echoed on the road behind him, fading into the distance.

Why had Chauna Singh done this? Khlit knew not. He felt hands touch him and stumbled forward again.

These were shadows, he told himself. Yet without doubt they were men, for they touched him. Why could he not see their faces? Again came the illusive memory—this was Khoten, not Kashmir.

How could that be? Khlit summoned his strength and tried to see what was around him. He wished to see the men, not shadows. Yet they were not all men—some were women. Torchlight

was in his eyes now, blinding him, for he had been in semidarkness for many hours.

The hands that were guiding him pushed him forward. A door closed behind him. The torches went before him down a hall—up some steps—into another hall. He heard voices which he did not understand.

His knee touched a bench and he sat upon it, for he was very weary. So much so that he had no desire for food. He craved rest and sleep. Here was warmth and shelter from the rain that had beat upon him for two days and a night. Rest—and sleep.

The torches went away. Khlit’s head dropped on his shoulder— and he slept.

Only fitfully. For he woke from time to time, hearing a noise which disturbed him. It was a deep, echoing sound, like the beat of temple drums. After a long while Khlit lifted his head. Men were standing near him and the torches had come again.

Then Khlit knew what his memory had been trying to tell him. The place they had come to in the mist was like to the temple of Khoten—the sound of the drums was the same. The courtyard had been the same.

He looked full into the face of Hamar.

“Tell me, minstrel,” he muttered, “be we in Kashmir or back in the devil temple of Khoten?”

Hamar smiled, and the fever was still in his eyes.

“We were long in coming, khan. But I guided you truly. You and Nur-Jahan are in a temple—aye, but not that of Khoten. ’Tis the home of the god Bon, the shrine of the master of Himachal in Kashmir—and I have brought you here.”

XVII

Then Khlit looked about him. Several men in dark robes stood near, bearing torches. By their light he saw Nur-Jahan beside him, erect and silent, his sheepskin coat thrown from her shoulders, her garments shrunk to her slender body by the wet.

Others sat on benches in the shadows by the walls. They were white of face and wore the dress of the black priests. A long chamber stretched before him, lighted after a fashion by candles. At the end of the chamber was a dais of stone.

On this pedestal Khlit could see twin shapes that resembled feet of monstrous size. The rest of the form was hidden by a curtain which hung from the ceiling.

Again the sound of the gongs came to him, and Nur-Jahan spoke.

“You have brought us—here—Hamar? You who were my friend?”

“Aye,” said the minstrel slowly. “But what is friendship? Two leaves drifting together down the highway at the wind’s touch. Lo, I am a servant of Bon. The other gods are small beside Bon. For greater than the many-faced gods is fate. And death is one with fate. Death is the power that holds us in its grasp—and I am a servant of death.”

He paused, to glance fleetingly at the curtain in the shadows. When he spoke again his voice was gentle.

“There lived one man, Nur-Jahan, who was strong enough to wrestle with fate. That was Akbar, the Mogul. Out of the threads of life his hands wove the fabric of an empire. He saw beyond the many shrines of the gods—Muslim or Brahman. He sought a greater wisdom than theirs. Even to the temple of Bon he came and bent his head.”

A murmur of assent issued from the lips of the men who sat by the wall. Nur-Jahan stared at them proudly.

“The word of Akbar was law among us, Nur-Jahan,” went on the minstrel. “His last thought was for his empire. A mighty man and strong, he. But he yielded to the call of death. And he ordered your death, for he foresaw trouble if you were joined to Jahangir.”

Khlit rose to his feet, the stupor of sleep clearing from his brain.

No one heeded him. The passive silence of the watchers irked him. Here was an evil place.

“The servants of Bon,” cried a voice from the gloom, “are enemies of the Muslims. The death of Nur-Jahan will be pleasing to the god.”

“Aye,” assented Hamar softly, “it is so. You have sharp eyes and wit, Nur-Jahan, beloved of the Mogul. But you were blind— you and the two fools who served you. I was the messenger of Bon, sent to Khoten to bring you hither. It was I who kept Bator Khan from striving to take your life in the desert of Gobi. For your two fools are strong of limb and they were watching the dog of a Turkoman. So I waited.”

“False to your salt!” mocked the girl.

“Nay, what is faith among men but an idle word? At Khoten I sought for you long, but Chauna Singh had hidden you well, and so I and those who served me might not harm you—then. Before the temple of Bon in the city your death was decreed. Yet, for once, your wit saved you—when you offered yourself a sacrifice.”

“Was I one to be a victim to the mummery of the black priests?”

“Nay, Nur-Jahan, it is better so. You have given yourself to Bon, and the god will have your sacrifice. In the mountains I feared lest my feeble strength fail, and I should not guide you here. So I played the mystical music of Bon and was heartened.”

Khlit held himself erect by an effort of will. His endurance had been sapped by the last three days, and he knew that he had not the strength to lift a weapon. Age had taken from him the vigor that was Chauna Singh’s. Indeed, the priests had not troubled to take his sword. In the brief silence came the ceaseless beat of the temple gongs.

“By the Lake of Lamdok Tso,” smiled Hamar, “I thought that the will of the Rájput would rob me of your death. But fate had willed that it was not to be by his hand.”

“Aye,” said a voice, “they bound themselves over to the god, and thus it shall be.”

“Well I knew the way to this temple, Nur-Jahan. I prayed for strength to finish my task—and it was given me.”

XVIII

Khlit glanced around from face to face. He saw the same thing mirrored in all—the blood lust that had stirred the crowd in Khoten.

The beauty of Nur-Jahan only excited them further. The girl was pale, her thin cheeks ringed by dark, wet hair. But her eyes were proud.

Here was a true daughter of kings, thought the Cossack. Worn by the hardships they had been through, she still had spirit to confront those who hungered for her death.

“Better the swift hand of the Rájput!” she cried. “Than this thing of evil!”

“Nay, Nur-Jahan, queen among women,” smiled the minstrel-priest. “Chauna Singh is but a man. When he lifted his eyes in the courtyard and saw whither he had been brought, he fled. Here your blood will be laid before a god. You have sought to grasp the scepter of an empire in your lotus-hand, Nur-Jahan, but no one can wrest life from death. That which causes life causes also death.”

Khlit missed the sound that had been echoing through the hall. The temple gongs were silent.

“We shall not delay further, Nur-Jahan,” said a hard voice.

Khlit swayed and cursed his weakness. If he had been able to lift sword he would have flung himself upon the man who had betrayed them. But such was his weakness that he could not speak. Not so Nur-Jahan. The girl’s dark eyes flashed.

“Ho, priest!” she cried. “Your folly has made you mad. Think you, when Jahangir hears of this, he will leave one stone upon another, of this temple? Will one of you—” she swept an arm at the watchers—“save his life, if you slay me? The arm of the Mogul is long, and his love is everlasting as the hills.”

“How shall he know?” Hamar smiled. “The khan who came with you will die at the same time. And Chauna Singh, remembering what he himself had planned to do, will not dare speak.

Jahangir will not know. No tales pass beyond the walls of this temple.”

Khlit shook his head, for he thought that the illusions of a few hours ago were returning. Voices came to his keen ears from with-out, and the halls of the temple echoed strangely. Nur-Jahan’s cheeks, instead of being pale, had flushed, suddenly.

“Will you slay a woman, Hamar,” she cried loudly, “in this place of evil—and a woman who is loved of the Mogul?”

“Aye!” cried the voices around the wall, “for she has given herself!”

The sounds without grew in volume, swelling over the cries of the priests. Khlit wondered if many were coming to the hall. He knew not the customs of these temples. And still the clamor grew. Men rose along the wall and slipped from the door. Others glanced about uneasily.

Nur-Jahan had not ceased speaking. But Khlit paid no further heed to her. He had heard a sound which stirred his blood. Was it more of the mummery of the black priests? He knew not.

And then the girl fell silent. And silence held the room, with those who remained within it.

Hamar’s eyes turned from them to the door. And Khlit saw that he was troubled. The gaze of the others followed that of the minstrel.

A crashing blow sounded somewhere below them. At once the muffled sounds swelled clearer, as if a gateway had been opened. And Khlit laughed. He had heard what he knew well—the echo of horses’ hoofs—many of them—upon stone.

The priests rose and hurried to the door. Hamar stared blankly. Came a pistol shot, followed by the ring of weapons. Nur-Jahan caught Khlit’s arm.

“Back!” she whispered. “Into the shadows.”

And then Khlit was standing, sword in hand, in the gloom by the foot of the god Bon. The tumult increased to a roar—a shout from many throats.

“Ho! Níla-ghora ki aswár!”

“The battle-cry of the Rájputs, khan,” whispered the girl, her eyes proud. “Said I not Jahangir was lord of swift swords? Harken—they are riding their horses into the temple. They have come to meet me—Jahangir has sent his men to meet me!”

Khlit saw the bent form of Hamar scramble to the door, then pause, looking around wildly. A pistol cracked without the door and the man clutched the air, screaming. A wind swept into the place, blotting out many of the candles. On the stone floor the scattered torches were smouldering into embers.

Khlit roused himself to understanding of what had happened. “Nay,” he laughed, “Chauna Singh has paid his debt. The Rájput has brought hither the men from Leh. It is well.”

Whereupon, being weary, he sat down on the dais. And was asleep on the instant, his head pillowed on the foot of the god Bon.