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were those of the Ameer's ruffianly soldiers, soldiers either on active duty or, like himself, released from service, and he knew that for many years past no man of the Red Village had been drafted into the army.

Thus he was perfectly safe in announcing his presence to them with a charge of lead and, later on, of coming to terms: a fair half of the khirli catch to his own village—otherwise bullets and blood.

It was simple as sublimely simple, as sublimely brutal as his whole philosophy of life.

But they had spoken about the law—the ancient law

The young man with the pock-marked, vulpine face—Babar—had seemed the most manly of them all.

"What do you say, Babar?" he asked, and the other mumbled piously, "It is the law. The fishing rights of the southern bank belong to the Red Village."

Ebrahim Asif shook his head. He stalked through the doorway, while the villagers looked after him, stolid, sullen. He walked up to the River of Hate.

The men of the Red Village were still fishing, peaceful, undisturbed, serenely safe. One looked up, squinted against the light with sharp, puckered eyes, and seemed to see the rifle in Ebrahim Asif's hand. But he paid no attention to it. To him, too, there was the ancient law.

And, suddenly, out of the nowhere, a heavy weight dropped on Ebrahim Asif's soul.

"Yes," he murmured, "there is the law—for us Kafiri—" and he tossed the rifle into the swirling, foaming water.

Late that night, as he sat alone in his father's hut, which was now his, scraps of memory came to him. Piece by piece he put them together.