He was far more conversant with it than she, but--unlike her, and far more than the seething crowd--he knew the trend of events, and just what likelihood there was of insult or injury to Rosemary McClean being avenged in a generation.
He caused more comment than she, and of a different kind.

His rose-pink pugree, with the egret and the diamond brooch to hold the egret in its place--his jeweled sabre--his swaggering, almost ruffianly air--were no more meant to escape attention than his charger that clattered and kicked among the crowd, or his following, who cleared a way for him with the butt ends of their lances.

He rode ahead, but every other minute a mounted sepoy would reach out past him and drive his lance-end into the ribs of some one in the way.
There would follow much deep salaaming; more than one head would bow very low indeed; and in many languages, by the names of many gods, he would be cursed in undertones.

Aloud, they would bless him and call him "Heaven-born!" But he took no interest whatever in the crowd.

His dark-brown eyes were fixed incessantly on Rosemary McClean's back.