Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 146 No. 4 — page 86: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

don’t care a damn!” Barlow ex- English, his mind still on the Seeing that she, not understanding, had taken the sharp tone as a rebuke, he said: “tf I had been alone, Gulab, I'd have been troubled sorely, but perhaps the gods have sent you to help out.” “ Ah, yes, God pulled our paths together. And if Bootea is but a sacrifice that will be a favor, she is happy.” If the girl had been of a white race, in her abandon of love she would have laid her lips against his, but the women of Hind do not kiss. The big plate of burnished silver slid, as if pushed by celestial fingers, across the azure dome toward the gloomed walls of the Ghats that it would cross to dip into the sea, the Indian Ocean, and mile upon mile was picked from the front and laid behind by the gray as he strode with untir- The two riders felt rather sleepy—the Gulab warm and happy, cuddled in the pro- tecting cloak, and Barlow grim, oppressed of clay and sand, ran a molten. Silver, the sleepy waters “ By Jove!” and | nizant that he hed Dn ived the end of his ride, that the Don Quixote stood yonder on the hill, real- teadl: teat o's aac far as Bootea was concerned, he had just drifted. asked: “I'm afraid, little girl, your sakid is somewhat of a fool, for I have not asked where you want me to take you.” “Yonder, sesib,” and her eyes were turned toward the jeweled hill. As they rose to the hilltop that wasa slap of rock and sand carrying a city, he asked: ‘“* Where shall I put you down that will be near your place of rest, your friends?” “Is there a memsahid in the home of the safib?” she asked. : “No, Bootea, not so lucky—nobody but servants.” “ Then I will go to the bungalow of the said.” “ Confusion!” he exclaimed in moral trepidation. Bootea’s hand touched his arm, and she turned her face inward to hide the hot flush that lay upen it. “ No, se#ib, not because of Bootea; one does not sleep im the lap of a god.” “ All right, girl,” he answered. “ Sorry.” As the gray plodded tiredly down «the avenue of trees, a smooth road bordered by a hedge of cactus and lanten, Barlow turned him to the right up a drive of broken stone, and dropping to the ground at the veranda of a white-walled bungalow, lifted the girl down, saying: “ Within it can be arranged for a rest place for you.” | A chowkider, lean, like a mummified mendicant, rose up from a squeaking, roped charpoy and salaamed. ; = comicbooks.com