At their feet, strung
out between forbidding banks of clay and sand, ran a molten stream of
silver, the sleepy waters of the Muta.
"By Jove!" and Barlow, suddenly cognisant that he had practically
arrived at the end of his ride, that the windmill of Don Quixote stood
yonder on the hill, realised that in a sense, so far as Bootea was
concerned, he had just drifted. Now he asked: "I'm afraid, little
girl, your Sahib is somewhat of a fool, for I have not asked where you
want me to take you."
"Yonder, Sahib," and her eyes were turned toward the jewelled hill.
As they rose to the hilltop that was a slab of rock and sand carrying a
city, he asked: "Where shall I put you down that will be near your
place of rest, your friends?"
"Is there a memsahib in the home of the Sahib?" she asked.
"No, Bootea, not so lucky--nobody but servants."
"Then I will go to the bungalow of the Sahib."
"Confusion!" he exclaimed in moral trepidation.
Bootea's hand touched his arm, and she turned her face inward to hide
the hot flush that lay upon it. "No, Sahib, not because of Bootea; one
does not sleep in the lap of a god.
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