"Yes, Sahib, he will claim Bootea; a Mahratta never keeps faith. There
will be a fresh covenant, because he is like a beast of the jungle."

Barlow paced back and forth the small confine of the tent, muttering.
"It's hell!" He pictured the Gulab in the harem of Nana Sahib--in a
gaudy prison chained to a serpent. To interfere on her behalf would be
to sacrifice what came first, his duty as an officer of state, to what
would be called, undoubtedly, an infatuation. Elizabeth would take it
that way; even his superiors would call it at least inexpedient, bad
form. For a British officer to be interested or mixed up with a native
woman, no matter how noble the impulse, would be a shatterment of both
official and personal caste.

"I won't allow that," he declared vehemently, shifting into words his
mental traverse.

Bootea had followed with her eyes his struggle; then she said: "The
Sahib has heard of the women of the Rajputs who, with smiles on their
lips faced death, who, when the time of the last danger came were not
afraid?"

"Yes, Gulab. But for you it is not that way. You have said that I am
your protector--I will be."

There was a smile on the girl's lips as she raised her eyes to
Barlow's. "It is not permitted, Sahib; the gods have the matter in
their lap. For a little--yes, perhaps. It is the time of the
pilgrimage to the shrine of Omkar at Mandhatta, and Bootea will make
the pilgrimage; at the shrine is the priest that told Bootea of her