wound the many yards of blue material in a rakish criss-cross about his
shapely head, running a fold or two beneath his chin. The Patan
sheepskin coat was left with his horse.

When Bootea came at ten to where Barlow--who was now Jaswant
Singh--paced up and down with the swagger of a Rajput in front of the
_bunnia's_ shop, she stood for a little, her eyes searching the crowd
for her Sahib. When he laughed, and called softly, "Gulab," her eyes
almost wept for joy, for not seeing him at once, a dread that he had
gone had chilled her.

"You see how easy it is, in a good cause, to change one's caste," he
said.

"With you, Sahib, yes, because you can also change your skin."

There it was again, the indestructible barrier, the pigmented badge.
It drove the laugh from Barlow's lips.

"Why has the Afghan Musselman become a Hindu?" Bootea asked.

"I have no wish to anger these people who are on a holy pilgrimage by
going into their temples as a Moslem."

"You are going to the shrine of Omkar?" the Gulab asked aghast.

"Are you--again?" Barlow parried.

"Yes, Sahib, soon."