He stopped short. No flash of recognition lit up the features of the Gularzai, not the faintest sign even of having understood. He paused. Then he said, in Pushtu,--"Who is yon sirdar, Nawab Sahib?" "Shere Dil Khan. He is my son." The answer was curt and cold. Raynier went on,-- "If my father put thy brother to death, Nawab Sahib, I saved the life of thy son, Shere Dil Khan. The dent in that stick was made by the iron which would have crushed his head. Upon the knob are the letters of my name. May I handle it for a moment? It is not a weapon--and, am I not chained?" The man who held it stepped forward and placed it in his hand. As he did so, with his face close to the prisoner, Raynier recognised him completely. It was the man he had rescued in the midst of the rough and exasperated crowd. But for all the recognition on the face of the other it might have been a mask. Raynier took the stick. One glance at it was sufficient. There, on the massive silver head, were intertwined the letters H.R.--his initials. Somehow, hope died again within him. It might be that Shere Dil Khan had forgotten his English, or he might be under some vow not to use it-- and, acting on this idea, Raynier told the whole story in their own tongue. Still no sign of recognition, of corroboration lit up that impassive countenance. He could see that the story was aiding him not in the smallest degree, even if it were believed at all. "Well," he concluded, realising this, "there is no gratitude in the world. If you save a man's life, he is the one to seek out your own." "Thou hast appealed to our mercy, Feringhi," said Mushim Khan, "and not in vain. Thou hast been shown some small glimpse of the torments we had designed for thee, but Allah is merciful and shall we be less so? Wherefore, these we remit and thou shalt only suffer death--death by the sword, at the rising of to-morrow's sun, in the presence of the warriors of the Gularzai assembled here. For it has been sworn, and who may break an oath?" And the three chiefs went forth, leaving the prisoner alone. This, then, was how he next saw the silver-mounted stick which had saved the life of a man--and that man the son of his executioner. Was there such a thing as gratitude in the world? CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. ON THE GRAVE'S DARK BRINK. When, immediately on leaving his prisoner, Mushim Khan was informed that a believer had been brought in, escorting a woman, veiled, who had come far to communicate with him upon a matter of importance, the Nawab betrayed no surprise, nor did the statement that the woman, although dressed as one of their own women, was a Feringhi, elicit any, either. He coldly directed that they should be conducted to his durbar hall, and, accompanied by his son and Kuhandil Khan, he proceeded thither.