"No, Sahib, it is not needed," the girl protested.

"Yes, Bootea, I will come." Then with a little laugh he added; "The
gods have ordained that we take turns at protecting each other. It is
now my turn; I will come soon."

She turned her small oval face up to look at this wonderful man, to
discover if he were really there, that it was not some kindly god who
would vanish. He clasped the face, with its soul of adoration, in his
two palms and kissed her. Then fearing that she would fall, for she
had closed her eyes and reeled, he took her by the arm, opened the flap
of the tent, and steadied her into the arms of her handmaid.

It was a fitful night's sleep for Barlow; the beat of horses' hoofs on
the streets or the white sands beyond was like the patter of rain on a
roof. There were hoarse bull-throated cries of men who rode hither and
thither; tremulous voices floated on the night air wild dirges, like
the weird Afghan love song. Sometimes a long smooth-bore barked its
sharp call. At sunrise the Captain was roused from this tiring sleep
by the strident weird sing-song of the Mullah sending forth from a
minaret of the palace his call to the faithful to prayer, prayer for
the dead Chief. And when the voice had ceased its muezzin:

"Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar;
Confess that there is no God but God;
Confess that Mohammad is the prophet of God;
Come to Prayer, Come to Prayer,
For Prayer is better than Sleep."