Part 9 (1/2)

There was another hush, on which the girl's voice rose clear with a curious thrill in it.

”And she was very beautiful, was she not?”

”Her son is a good-looking fellow, at any rate,” remarked Jim Forrester, coolly, and moving away, he took up the newspaper, conscious of a certain irritation, and began to read the latest report of wireless telegraphy with the unsuspicious and unquestioning a.s.sent which we of these latter days reserve for the marvels of matter only.

Her father having gone back to his papers also, the girl and the goatherd were left alone midway between civilisation and savagery.

Huddled in his coa.r.s.e blanketing, his bare arms crossed over his bare knees, there was nothing distinctive or unusual in Khesroo's figure, behind which the background of shadowy desert was fast fading into shadowy sky, except the haggardness of the aquiline face, the hollowness of the dark eyes. These struck her, and she stretched out her hand to feel his.

”Have you fever now? No, you are quite cool.”

He s.h.i.+vered slightly at her touch, and his eyes, pa.s.sing hers, seemed to rest on the plaits of her hair.

”No, Huzoor,” he replied, ”it is a thief fever--it is hard to catch.”

She smiled. ”I think quinine will manage it.”

He shook his head. ”Nothing catches that which robs us of life at its own time. It will leave me none some day.” He spoke unconcernedly, as if the fact were beyond question.

”Then why do you wear that amulet if it is of no use?” she said, pointing to the little leathern bag, such as the wild tribes use for the carrying of charms, which was tied round his arm.

Khesroo shook his head again, but smiled this time, and the flash of his white teeth must have removed any doubt of his ident.i.ty, had such doubt existed.

”The queen-lady mistakes,” he said. ”It does not contain a charm. It is my _photongrar_.”

”Your what?” she echoed, uncomprehending.

”_Photongrar_. The picture, Huzoor, that the sun holds always of all things it has ever seen in the world. It showed this to a memsahiba long ago when I was little, and she showed it to my mother.”

”You mean your photograph?”

”Huzoor, yes! Perhaps the queen-lady might care to see it, since it is like my mother as she was--_before they found her!_”

Perhaps it was the thought of what the poor woman must have been like _after_ that finding which made the English girl feel a vague oppression as she took the tight roll of paper that Khesroo unfolded from a piece of red rag.

”I was five, Huzoor,” he said simply, ”and my mother loved me much.”

Small wonder, was the girl's first thought as she looked at the sedate, yet childish face, half-concealed by the high turban, which had evidently been borrowed for the occasion, at the quaint dignity of the childish figure huddled into finery too large for it, and holding a flower in its hand as if it had been a sceptre. But as she looked, a startled expression came over her face; she stood up and hurried to her father, with appeal in her voice.

”Oh, father! do look here! How very curious! This photograph of Khesroo when he was a child--I think mother must have taken it, for I am almost sure there is one like it in her diary--in the volume you gave me to read the other day, because we were camping through the same country.

Stay! I'll fetch it----”

She was back in a moment with an unclasped book in her hand, and fluttered hastily through pages and sketches, almost to the end.

”There!” she cried, suddenly, ”I was sure of it!”

Her father laid the one photograph beside the other, and Jim Forrester, looking over his shoulder curiously, compared them also. They were identical. But underneath the one pasted into the book a woman's hand had written:

”_The Son of a King!_”