There, too, was Osman Abdallah, an Arab faquir or dervish, who had accompanied the troops from Bengal, a clamorous half-naked fellow, with hair unshorn and shaggy, his lean attenuated limbs smeared with ashes and ghee, thus compelling all to keep to windward of him, as his person was odorous neither of Inde nor Araby the Blest, while he begged for alms to send him on his pilgrimage to the three pools of Sacred Fish, kept by a holy Suyd (or Santon) among the mountains of Sirichussa; and to him, as a riddance, Denzil threw a handful of silver shahi's (petty coins indeed) but of great value in Afghanistan, where cowrie shells pass current at about the tenth of a penny. Amid all this motley and increasing crowd, he looked anxiously for Rose Trecarrel; already the brass band of the Native Infantry burst upon the air with a crash of music as they began a melody from an opera; and something of disappointment and pique at her protracted absence began to steal into Denzil's heart, for her eagerness seemed by no means equal to his own. Near him were a group of young officers like himself, but belonging principally to the 5th Cavalry and Horse Artillery. Unlike him, they were neither silent nor thoughtful, but were staring--some through their eye-glasses--at the Afghan women, and amusing themselves with sarcastic criticisms on the quaint figures about them, especially the Khan of the Kussilbashes on his camel and "Timour the Tartar," as they called the Shahzadeh, in his steel cap and steel shirt of the middle ages. "There goes Rose Trecarrel!" cried one. "Do you know her?" asked another. "Know her--who doesn't? Why, man alive, she's as well known as Mechi's razor strop, or Warren's blacking, or anything you may see staring you in the face in the Strand or Regent Street," was the heedless and not very ceremonious response; and if a glance could have slain the speaker, Denzil would certainly have left a vacant cornetcy in the 5th Cavalry. He turned away in anger, which, however, was somewhat soothed when he heard Shireen Khan, who was gazing after her, say to Shahzadeh Timour, that she was "beautiful as a Peri," which in his language is expressive of a race constituting a link between women and angels. In a moment Denzil was by her side. She was in a little phaeton drawn by two pretty Cabul ponies and was alone. To avoid being joined by anyone, before she caught the eye of Denzil, she had driven them round the crowd about the band, managing her whip and ribbons very prettily, her hands being cased in dainty buff gauntlet gloves. She was tastefully dressed and wore a bonnet of that shade of blue which she knew was most suitable to her pure complexion and rich bright auburn hair; for Rose was one of those who thought it "was woman's business to be beautiful."