A few minutes afterwards he saw Bulangi's slave-girl paddling in a small dug-out to the town with her cakes for sale.

She also had seen them in the grey dawn.

And Babalatchi grinned confidentially to himself at the recollection of the slave-girl's discomposed face, of the hard look in her eyes, of the tremble in her voice, when answering his questions.

That little Taminah evidently admired Dain Maroola.

That was good! And Babalatchi laughed aloud at the notion; then becoming suddenly serious, he began by some strange association of ideas to speculate upon the price for which Bulangi would, possibly, sell the girl.