Through the press a horseman pushed forward.

The rider stared at the strange captive, started and uttered an astonished cry.
"The white queen of Allaha, whom mine own eyes saw crowned at the durbar there!" he murmured.

"By the shroud of the prophet what can this mean?
Stop!" he called to the soldiers.

Kathlyn looked up dully.
"Convey her to his highness the Kumor!" The prince should decide what should be done with her.
The Kumor was big and lazy and sensual.

He gazed upon Kathlyn with eyes which sparkled evilly, like a cat's.
"Who is this woman ?" he demanded.
"Highness, she is the white queen of Allaha, but who may say that she is here ?" with a smile as evil as his master's.
"But how came she here ?" The horseman briefly recounted the events as he had seen them in the capital of Allaha.
"Who are you, maiden ?" the Kumor asked in English, for, like all potentates, little or great, in India, he spoke English.