Hilda Clive dropped her veil as she came into the presence of the chiefs. They returned her salaam gravely, eyeing her with the same furtive curiosity as that which she felt with regard to them. What stately men they were, she thought. The very simplicity of their snowy garments and beautifully-folded turbans added a dignity from which any barbaric splendour of jewels and colours would have detracted. So this was Mushim Khan, she thought, instinctively recognising the Nawab. He was indeed a noble-looking man--and, although cold and stern at that moment, his face was not a cruel one--and the same held good of the others. Surely she would obtain that for which she was here. And how came it that she was here? Simply one of those strange impressions of prevoyance to which she was at times given. It had been borne in upon her with a vivid and startling suddenness that the missing man was in great peril; so incisive and convincing indeed was this impression as to dispel forthwith the idea that he was a courteously-treated prisoner of war in the hands of a generous and honourable enemy. She, and she alone, had power to save him. All Orientals were fond of money, she had heard--fortunately, she had plenty. She would literally redeem him, would buy his release, even though it cost her every farthing she had in the world. The plan once conceived, she lost no time in carrying it out. She said no word about it to anybody, for fear of being interfered with, but, leaving a note for the Tarletons, she started off with Mehrab Khan for the Nawab's stronghold. The Baluchi had raised no objection. He took it as quite a matter of course that she should require him to accompany her alone into the midst of a hostile tribe. So, having adopted the Gularzai attire and being well armed, he had brought her in safety hither. But now poor Hilda found herself in a quandary at the off-set. Her knowledge of Hindustani was of the slightest, and Mehrab Khan's knowledge of English _nil_. She could make him understand her in ordinary matters, but as an interpreter she feared he might prove of little use. But here aid came from an unlooked-for quarter. "If you will allow me to be your interpreter, madam, I will strive to convey to my father what you wish to say." Hilda stared. It was Shere Dil Khan who had spoken, and his English was well-nigh faultless. She thanked him, and then without waste of words set forward the object of her visit. But it was hardly necessary for him to interpret the Nawab's reply. She knew that it was a stern and emphatic refusal. "Who is this woman, and what is she to the prisoner?" asked Mushim Khan. "Is she his wife?" This, though more courteously rendered, brought the colour to Hilda's face, and she replied that she was not--but only a distant relation. She thought it was time delicately to hint at the question of ransom.