"So," said he, in her own tongue, "here we meet, children of the sun in the land of the mist. So far from home we should be friends."
"I make no friend of your blood-stained race," said Jani, harshly.
"Why, what harm have we done thee or thine, mother?" asked Muhammed, his easy good-humoured tone contradicted by the relentless keenness of the gaze that still strove to pierce the gloom in her direction.
"What harm, Pathan?" shrieked Jani, suddenly, trembling with a sort of monkey fury. She flung out her hands as if waving off some threatening vision. "What harm, do you ask, have you done, you and your brothers of the mountain? Harm enough. See that ye do no more. Cross not my mistress's path."
Muhammed put his hand over his mouth, as if to conceal a yawn. Then, with an air of weary curiosity:
"Your mistress?" he echoed. "Nay, mother, my business is with your noble lord. How should even my shadow ever come between your lady and the sun?"
"I will tell you," said Jani. She came closer to him, though still keeping in the darkness, and laid her fingers on his sleeve. "Your mountains once brought her great sorrow. She has forgotten, she is consoled. I would not that she remembered again. Why did you come here?" she cried, breaking into a wail. "My heart trembles. It is for no good!"
The man shrugged his shoulders, but she repeated in a sort of frenzy:
"Keep out of the Mem Sahib's way. Waï, that you should have come here to remind her! Her tears are dry."
Muhammed smiled again, a smile full of secret yet fierce irony.