"Yes," said Shireen; "among us men are allowed by the Koran to beat their wives, so long as they do not bruise the skin; for the Prophet has ordained that women shall not be treated as intellectual beings." "Why?" "Lest they aspire to equality with men." Denzil translated all this to Rose, who had been listening and turning from one speaker's face to the other; she burst into a saucy little laugh, and said, "Tell them that their Prophet was a precious old----" What she was about to designate him of Mecca, we know not, for Denzil placed his hand on her lips. The sharp black eyes of the Khan detected something in this action. They sparkled, while his face grew red as his cap with sudden anger, and with hands clenched and uplifted, he exclaimed, "Now by the seven heavens and the veil of unity, through which the Prophet passed in his vision, but this is too much! You are either married or not? Do you laugh at my beard, Kaffirs? If she is your wife, I shall respect her, nor send her, as I intended, to Bhokara or Toorkistan for sale; if she is not, then so much the worse for her!" And, as he spoke, the softness of his Persian dialect turned, in his anger, hoarse and guttural as that of an Afghan. "Your wife, Denzil," exclaimed Rose, blushing with mingled amazement and annoyance, when the first part of this speech was told her; "I do care more for you than for any one else--but--but--" "What, dearest Rose?" "This is a little too much." "Consider--the danger--the alternative." "Must I pass myself off as such?" "It would appear so, dear Rose, for your own sake dissemble." "Assume a virtue if I have it not!" said she, with some asperity. "It is unavoidable, what are we to do?" "Why--is this a conspiracy between you, for it looks very like it?" "On my honour it is not," replied Denzil, earnestly and tenderly; "but Toorkistan--think of that." "Yes--Toorkistan!" repeated the Khan, detecting the word, resentment still gleaming in his eyes that a Kaffir girl should dare to laugh at or mock him. And in this pleasant dilemma we must leave them for a time. CHAPTER XXVI. THE WANDERER. We must now ask the reader to traverse with greater speed than even the electric wire possesses, both sea and land, and, annihilating time and space, accompany us once more to the opening scenes of our story--even to the grey, sea-beaten cliffs, and broad brown moors of Cornwall. In an early chapter we referred to a certain hostelry named the Trevanion Tavern, as a place where sundry beverages were procurable, and to which General Trecarrel (whose poor old bones were whitening now with others in the Khyber Pass) sent Mike Treherne and his comrades on that exciting evening when Audley Trevelyan rescued Sybil Devereaux from the terrors of the gloomy Pixies' Hole.