The Gate
heaven-devised silks; self-appointed interpreters cried loudly that the mem-sahibs should not fail to avail themselves of their matchless services. Pockmarked beggars in garments that were miracles of rags continued to wail for the never-ending baksheesh.
All—except the beggars—deprecated any idea of reward, and asserted boldly and bodily their high integrity and the encomiums heaped upon them by previous travelers. Noisy recrimination on the part of the tonga drivers against the horde of rivals added to the confusion.
Through the mass of natives a carriage drove up behind splendidly matched horses, scattering the ranks of the beggars. A diminutive, uniformed figure dropped instantaneously from the seat beside the driver and sought out Edith Rand. The military atom bent a turbaned head and raised slim hands, crying in very fair English:
"Major-Sahib Fraser-Carnie presents compliments. Is this the American Missy?" Adding complacently, "I am the orderly of the Major-Sahib, Rawul Singh."
Edith was about to follow her aunt into the carriage, while Rawul Singh attended to the forwarding of their baggage on the tongas, when a man stepped from the crowd and thrust his arm over the carriage wheel. The action surprised the girl, unaccustomed to the manners of the native servants.
She saw that the man was as tall as the Afghans, but of a more powerful build. His impassive broad face was the hue of burned wood. Slant, black eyes were bent submissively before her. Yet she had the impression that he had been looking at her intently for some time.
The aspect of the native was somber—one arm rest-
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