They were in a country of rocks. It was late afternoon of the second day’s travel, and Bamban had just found a suitable place for camp. Anna Erivan’s eyes had been turned toward the south for a moment. Now her hand pressed Romney’s sleeve. He followed her eyes and discerned a black movement in the distance. Silently they watched a single black figure which presently appeared more clearly, not on account of an approach, but because of an eminence gained. They saw a signal as of a wind-blown cloak. A moment later a party of horsemen appeared upon the slope of a rolling waste of sand, halted before the figure that had signalled—then all were in the saddle and sweeping forward. Romney’s eyes turned to Bamban. The little chap was kneeling in the midst of the camp-kit, but watching the horsemen. Similar parties of horsemen had been met on the out-journey, but there had not come to Bamban’s face before quite such a look as now. He stepped forward to Romney. "It is the Dugpas," he said. "They are devils." "I think we’ll take care of them all right," Romney said lightly. Anna Erivan fixedly regarded the approach of the desert-men. There were a dozen or fourteen, riding at a gallop in a semi-circle about their leader—the faces bent forward, their black cloaks blown full behind. "We met this sort of thing coming out," Romney explained. His hand crept under his blouse to the place of the little parchment. She did not answer. There were no further words between them, just her quick look, haunting and tender, and his movement slightly nearer. "Greeting—_Amitabah_." Romney’s salutation was returned by the leader. He came forward alone. He was old, very lean and sharp of face, singular in his preservation of wiry strength. His face was a surprise, also, since it might be called cruel or kind, according to the moment; but it was in no wise heavy with brutality. The ponies were given over to the charge of a third portion of the party and were left some distance from the camels. The relieved riders came forward in twos. The significant thing to Romney and the woman was that these were mainly men of years, a queer phantom grayness about them, gray in the black of their skin, a touch of gray in the dulled red of their lips. Life had shown them more than comes from mere desert-riding. Bamban strode in closer. The leader loosed a strap at his throat, the black cloak falling back from his shoulders. It was retained at his hips by a girdle. He shook his arms with a queer spasmodic movement, as if to straighten out a cramp of hard riding from his muscles. There was a thin line of white foam on his lips and he spat twice—pointing first to the woman, then to the camels. "He does not want her here when we talk," said Bamban. "I will take her there."