Edith Rides Alone
lion backed obstinately against the open front of a structure covered with grass matting from which lights gleamed. In the reflection, Edith could see a leprous beggar mouthing at her.
"Baksheesh—plentee baksheesh. O my God! Baksheesh. O my God!"
This parrotlike ritual emerging from lips half eaten away from the toothless mouth was his one stock in trade. Perhaps this unfortunate plied his trade solely with the missionaries. But in Edith's appearance, he sensed the opportunity of a declining life.
No!" she cried, motioning him away frenziedly. "No baksheesh." To the crowd she appealed eagerly. "English! Where are the English? Don't you understand? Does any one speak English? Sahib log!"
A Chinese merchant of the higher ranks would undoubtedly have gone to Edith's help, from various motives—perhaps from the instinctive good manners of his race. A Punjabi would have defended the girl against a mob, so strong is the bond between Briton and Indian. Even a groups of Afghans might have assisted her boldly, enjoying the excellent pretext for beating the despised Sarts and Chinese and perhaps letting a little blood. Later, they would have claimed a small ransom from the chargé d'affaires.
But there was no Afghan to take the center of the street against the throng of bazaar scum, indolent Sartish townsmen, idiotic Taghlik shepherds, and staring, ignorant Kirghiz, and all manner of diseased filth.
All were intent on her, all gazing, all talking. She could not move the white horse forward against these trouards of the bazaar of a—to all intents—mediæval
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