Colonel Hare should never dip his fingers into the filigree basket--never while he, Durga Ram, lived.
Quite unknown, quite unsuspected by him, for all the activity of his spies, a volcano was beginning to grumble under his feet.

All tyrants, the petty and the great, have heard it: the muttering of the oppressed.
Perhaps the fugitives had gone thirty miles when suddenly the jungle ended abruptly and a desert opened up before them.

Beyond stood a purple line of rugged hills.

Ramabai raised his hand, and the elephants came to a halt.
"I believe I know where I am," said Ramabai.

"Somewhere between us and yonder hills is a walled city, belonging to Bala Khan, a Pathan who sometimes styles himself as a rajah.