A rippling thunder of deep voices vibrated the thronged street, crying, "Allah Akbar! the peace of God be upon the soul of the dead Chief!" A lane was opened up to them by the grim, wild-eyed, bandit-looking horsemen, _tulwar_ over shoulder and knives in belt, who called: "Back ye! the favoured of the Commander passes. Back, make way! 'tis an order." The faces of the soldiers that had been wreathed in revenge and blood-lust when Barlow had been brought, were now friendly, and there were cries of "Salaam, brother! salaam, Flower of the Desert!" for it had been spread that the Gulab had discovered the murderer, had denounced him. "Brave little Gulab!" Barlow said in a low voice, bending his head to look into her eyes, for he felt the arm trembling against his hand. She did not answer, and he knew that she was sobbing. When they were past the turbulent crowd he said, "Bootea, your people will all have fled or been captured." "Yes, Sahib," she gasped. "Perhaps even your maid servant will have been taken." "No, Sahib, they would not take her; her home is here." By her side he travelled to where the now deserted tents of the decoits stood silent and dark, like little pagodas of sullen crime. A light flickered in one tent, and silhouetted against its canvas side they could see the form of a woman crouched with her head in her hands. "The maid is there," Barlow said: "but it is not enough. I will bring my blankets and sleep here at the door of your tent." "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."