"That is Ajeet Singh, chief of these men," Baptiste answered.
"He is a handsome animal," Nana Sahib declared.
"He is like an Arab Apollo," Elizabeth commented; and her tone suggested that it was a whip-cut at the Prince's half-sneer.
The girl's description of Ajeet was trite. The Chief's face was almost perfect; the golden-bronze tint of the skin set forth in the enveloping background of a turban of blue shot with gold-thread draped down to cover a silky black beard that, parted at the chin, swept upward to loop over the ears. The nose was straight and thin; there was a predatory cast to it, perhaps suggested by the bold, black, almost fierce eyes. He was clothed with the full, rich, swaggering adornment of a Rajput; the splendid deep torso enclosed in a shirt-of-mail, its steel mesh so fine that it rippled like silver cloth; a red velvet vestment, negligently open, showed in the folds of a silk sash a jewel-hilted knife; a tulwar hung from his left shoulder. As he moved here and there, there was a sinuous grace, panther-like, as if he strode on soft pads. At rest his tall figure had the set-up of a soldier.
As the three in the brake studied the handsome Ajeet, a girl stepped forward and stood contemplating them.
"By Jove!" the exclamation had been Captain Barlow's; and Elizabeth, with the devilish premonition of an acute woman knew that it was a masculine's involuntary tribute to feminine attractivity.
She had turned to look at the Captain.
Nana Sahib, little less vibrant than a woman in his sensitive organisation, showed his even, white teeth: "Don't blame you, old chap," he said; "she's all that. I fancy that's the girl they call Gulab Begum. Am I right, Sirdar?"
"Yes, Prince," Jean Baptiste answered. "The girl is a relative of the handsome Ajeet."
"She's simply stunning!" Captain Barlow said, as it were, meditatively.