The iron bracelet, indicated why she had socially passed down the
scale--there was no doubt about it.
"I understand, Gulab," he said; "the Sahibs all understand, and know that
widowhood is not a reproach."
"But the Sahib questioned of love; and how can one such know of love?
The heart starves and does not grow for it feeds upon love--what we of
Hind call the sweet pain in the heart."
"But have none been kind, Gulab--pleased by your flower face, has no one
warmed your heart?"
The slim arms that gripped Barlow in a new tightening trembled, the face
that fled from the betraying moonlight was buried against his tunic, and
the warm body quivered from sobs.
Barlow turned her face up, and the moonlight showed vagrant pearls that
lay against the olive cheeks, now tinted like the petals of a rose. Then
from a service point of view, and as a matter of caste, Barlow went
_ghazi_. He drooped his head and let his lips linger against the girl's
eyes, and uttered a superb common-place: "Don't cry, little girl," he
said; "I am seven kinds of a brute to bother you!"
And Bootea thought it would have been better if he had driven a knife
into her heart, and sobbed with increased bitterness.
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