He dismounted as he spoke and stood at attention, then stared truculently, too inherently chivalrous to deny her civility—he would have cut his throat as soon as address her from horseback while she stood—and too contemptuous of her father's calling to be more civil than he deemed in keeping with his honor.
“Salaam, Mohammed Gunga!” She seemed very much relieved, although doubtful yet. “Not letters again?”
“No, Miss-sahib. I am no mail-carrier! I brought those letters as a favor to Franklin-sahib at Peshawur; I was coming hither, and he had no man to send. I will take letters, since I am now going, if there are letters ready; I ride to-night.”
“Thank you, Mahommed Gunga. I have letters for England. They are not yet sealed. May I send them to you before you start?”
“I will send my man for them. Also, Miss Maklin-sahib” (heavens! how much cleaner and better that sounded than the prince's ironical “sahiba”!)
“If you wish it, I will escort you to Peshawur, or to any city between here and there.”
“But—but why?”
“I saw Jaimihr. I know Jaimihr.”
“And—”
“And—this is no place for a padre, or for the daughter of a padre.”