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 coarse 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 shivered slightly at her touch, and his eyes, passing 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 identity, 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.