of almost every woman--once. It had come to Bootea; foolishly,
impossible of an attainment, everything against its ultimate
accomplished happiness, but nothing of that mattered. She was there,
waiting--waiting for the service that Fate had whispered into her being.

And she danced divinely--that is the proper word for it. Her dancing
was a revelation to Amir Khan who had seen _nautchnis_ go through their
sensuous, suggestive, voluptuous twistings of supple forms, disfigured
by excessive decoration--bangles, anklets, nose rings, high-coloured
swirling robes, and with voices worn to a rasping timbre that shrilled
rather than sang the _ghazal_ (love song) as they gyrated. But here
was something different. Bootea's art was the art that was taught
princesses in the palaces of the Rajput Ranas, not the bidding of a
courtesan for the desire of a man. Her dress was a floating cloud of
gauzy muslin: and her sole evident adornment the ruby-headed gold
snake-bracelet, the iron band of widowhood being concealed higher on
her arm. Some intuition had taught the girl that this mode would give
rise in the warrior's heart to a feeling of respectful liking: it had
always been that way with real men where she was concerned.

When Amir Kahn passed an order that Bootea was to be treated as a
queen, his officers smiled in their heavy black beards and whispered
that his two wives would yet be hand-maidens to a third, the favourite.

Hunsa saw all this, for he was the one that often carried a message to
the Gulab that her presence was desired in the palace. But there were
always others there; the players and the musicians--the ones who played
the sitar (guitar) and the violin; and the officers.

Hunsa was getting impatient. Every time he looked at the handsome