“You cannot go back, and you dare not go forward without passports,” said Kasam. “Therefore, if you possess any gentlemanly instincts at all, you will endeavor to encourage the ladies and your father, instead of adding to their annoyance. When one travels, one must be a philosopher.”
“You are impertinent,” returned Allison, scowling.
“If I yielded to my earnest desire,” said the prince, “I would ask my men to flog you into a decent frame of mind. If I find, when I return, that you have been disagreeable, perhaps I shall punish you in that way. It may be well for you to remember that we are no longer in Europe.”
The young man made no reply, but Kasam remembered the vengeful look that flashed from his eyes.
Heretofore the prince had worn the European frock coat; now he assumed the white burnous of his countrymen. When he came to bid adieu to his employers before starting for Mekran, Bessie declared that their guide looked more handsome and distinguished than ever—“just like that famous picture of the Son of the Desert, you know.”
Kasam was about to mount his horse—a splendid Arabian he had purchased in the village—when a tall Baluch who was riding by cast a shrewd glance into the young man’s face, sharply reined in his stallion, and placed a thumb against his forehead, bowing low.
Kasam’s brown face went ashen grey. He gazed steadily into the stranger’s eyes.
“You are bound for Mekran, my prince?” asked the tall Baluch, in the native tongue.
“I ride at once.”
“Make all haste possible. Burah Khan is dying.”