Ahmed had purposely chosen a track that wound along at the base of the hills, for the undulations of the country would baffle the pursuers, who could not press on at their utmost speed for fear of a fall. Every now and then he had to pull in his horse to avoid a stumble, and his care enabled the enemy for a mile or two to keep him in sight. They could not circumvent him, for he knew every foot of the hills, and could turn off in any direction at need, with perfect confidence in his ability to elude them. They were bound to follow in his tracks. So for some time the chase continued, the distance between pursuers and pursued scarcely varying. At length Ahmed, feeling that the hills had served their turn in tiring the horses of Dilasah and his troop, swept down into the plain and gave Ruksh his head. The gallant animal flew on at a bounding pace. In half-an-hour the pursuers were hopelessly distanced. Coming to a point from which he could see a long stretch of level ground behind him, Ahmed pulled up, turned in his saddle, and narrowly scanned the course of his flight. There in the far distance were his pursuers, but riding the other way. They had given up the chase.
It was early morning when Ahmed, riding through the level plain, among gardens which, though it was autumn, still scented the air, came to the cantonments outside the walls of Peshawar. What he saw filled him with amazement. The ground was studded with tents, amid which soldiers of all races--tall bearded Sikhs, active little Gurkhas, red-coated Englishmen--swarmed like bees in a hive. And there in the distance he sees a lady galloping, followed by a sais, and she is not veiled, as were all the women in Shagpur, save those of low caste; Ahmed had rarely seen the faces of Rahmut Khan's wives for a year or two. And here comes a carriage drawn by two horses, and in it are a lady, she too unveiled, and a Feringhi man in spotless white clothes. And as it dashes past him, the lady turns to the officer at her side and says--
"What a fine-looking young fellow! Who is he, Fred?"
"He? A Pathan from the hills, Alice, and a most accomplished brigand, you may be sure."
Ahmed hears the words, and though he does not understand them, they set him thrilling with a strange excitement. Long-forgotten scenes are coming back to him; he remembers ladies just like this one--ladies who used to speak in the same clear low tones, and men, sometimes in red coats, sometimes in white, who used to dance him up and down on their knees. His brain was in a whirl; recollection came to him like the dim remembrance of things seen in dreams. These were people of his blood--and he was a stranger among them.