Barlow darted forward as Bootea reeled and caught her with an arm.
Close, the face, fair as that of a memsahib in the pallor of fright and
the paling moonlight, sweet, of finer mould, more spiritual than the
Mona Lisa's, puritanically simple, the mass of black hair drawn
straight back from the low broad brow--for the rich turban had fallen
in her fight for freedom--woke memory in the sahib; and as the blood
ebbed back through the girl's veins, the pale cheeks flushed with rose,
her eyelids quivered and drew back their shutters from eyes that were
like those of an antelope.
"You--you, Gulab, the giver of the red rose, the singer of the love
song!" Barlow gasped.
"Yes, Captain Sahib, you who are like a god--" Bootea checked, her head
drooped.
But Barlow putting his fingers under her chin and gently lifting the
face asked, "And what--what?"
"You came like one in a dream. Also, Sahib, I am but one who danced
before you and you have saved me."
"And, little girl, you saved my life."
He felt a shudder run through the girl's form, and then she pushed him
from her crying, "Sahib--Hunsa! Quick!"
For the jamadar, recovering his senses, had risen to his knees fumbling
at his belt groggily for his knife.
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