With hands clasped behind his back, head bent, absorbed in thought, the black fan of his beard spreading over the black broadcloth on his breast, the cross-folds of the turban startlingly exotic on top of the fluttering sable garments—the latter pathetically European in intention—an incongruous figure under these bare placid English fruit-trees, Muhammed Saif-u-din came full upon Raymond Bethune. The sodden grass of the long neglected road had swallowed the sound of their footsteps. For once the Pathan was shaken out of his oriental calm for a brief moment as, suddenly looking up, he found himself within a yard of the officer of Guides. The guest of the Old Ancient House had strolled out by himself to smoke a solitary meditative pipe in the wild avenue. Seeing Muhammed’s flaming headgear, he had deliberately directed his steps towards him; for Bethune would not have been that self that India had made him, had he not felt instinctively lured into the company of the Eastern, all degenerate as he chose to consider him. Moreover, the personality of Sir Arthur’s secretary baffled him, and Bethune resented being baffled. He fixed his eye keenly upon the Pathan, turned babu. "Your soul is in the East, Muhammed," said he, addressing him in his own tongue. The dark face opposite relaxed into a smile, the white teeth flashed, Muhammed made the supple Indian salaam. "Nay, your honour, my soul is in great England," he said, and would have passed on. But the other arrested him somewhat peremptorily. Muhammed wheeled back and brought his hand to the edge of his turban with a gesture that betrayed the soldier, then drew himself up rigidly. Under Bethune’s long scrutinising look the thin face fell into deep lines of gravity; the large dark eyes, somewhat restless as a rule in their brilliancy, gazed back straight and full. The Englishman’s heart kindled as the unconquered spirit of the Pathan seemed to rear itself to meet the cold domination of the conquering race. There was nothing of revolt in the man’s look, yet something untameable, he thought. And it pleased him hugely. His mind leaped back to his own "devils of boys" on the mountain sides—eagles and leopards of humanity, as compared with the domestic animals. He ran a loving glance over the Indian’s muscular yet lithe proportions: built for strength—for endurance—for the strenuous side of life. "How comes it, O son of the Mountain," cried he, "that you are not among the Emperor of India’s warriors? How come you to bend those eyes over screed and parchment, to cramp that hand round the quill instead of the talwar?" The florid oriental language came oddly enough in stiff, abrupt British accents from the officer’s tongue. The flowing guttural which replied was in marked contrast: "I have heard it said," answered the secretary, without moving a muscle of his countenance, "that the pen is mightier than the sword."