On the Face of the Waters

BOOK IV
CHAPTER V

THE DRUM ECCLESIASTIC.

The silence of the city had lasted for seven days. And now, on the 1st of August, the dawn was at hand, and the rain which had been falling all night had ceased, leaving pools of water about the city walls. Still, smooth pools like plates of steel, dimly reflecting the gray misty sky against which the minarets of the mosque showed as darker streaks, its dome like a faint cloud.

And suddenly the silence ended. The first shuddering beat of a royal salute vibrated through the heavy dewy air, the first chord of "God save the Queen," played by every band in Delhi, floated Ridgeward.

The cheek of it!

That phrase—no other less trenchant, more refined—expressed purely the feeling with which the roused six thousand listened from picket or tent, comfortable bed or damp sentry-go, to this topsy-turveydom of anthems! The cheek of it! The very walls ought to fall Jericho-wise before such sacrilegious music.

But in the city it sent a thrill through hearts and brains. For it roused many a dreamer wild had never felt the chill of a sword-hilt on his palm to the knowledge that the time for gripping one had come.

Since this was Bukr-eed, the Great Day of Sacrifice. No common Bukr-eed either, when the blood of a goat or a bull would worthily commemorate Abraham's sacrifice of his best and dearest, but something more akin to the old patriarch's devotion. Since on Bukr-eed, 1857, the infidel was to be sacrificed by the faithful, and the faithful by the infidel.

For the silence of seven days had been a silence only from bugles and fifes; the drum ecclesiastic had taken their place. The mosques had resounded day and night to the wild tirades of preachers, and even Mohammed Ismail, feeling that in religious war lay the only chance of forgiveness for past horrors, spent every hour in painting its perfections, in deprecating any deviation from its rule. The sword or the faith for men; the faith without the sword for those who could not fight. But others were less scrupulous, their denunciations less guarded, and as the processions passed through the narrow streets flaunting the green banner, half the Mohammedan population felt that the time had come to strike their blow for the faith. And Hussan Askuri dreamed dreams; and the Bird-of-Heaven, with its crest new-dyed for the occasion, gave the Great Cry viciously as it was paraded through jostling crowds in the Thunbi Bazaar, where religion found recruits by the score even among the women. While Abool-Bukr, vaguely impressed by the stir, the color, the noise, took to the green and swore to live cleanly. So that Newâsi's soft eyes shone as she repeated Mohammed Ismail's theories. They were very true, the Prince said; besides this could be nothing but honest fighting since there were no women on the Ridge; whereupon she stitched away at his green banner fearlessly.

But in the Palace it needed all Bukht Khân's determination and Hussan Askuri's wily dreams to reconcile the old King to the breach of etiquette which the sacrifice of a camel instead of a bull by the royal hands involved. For the army—three-quarters Brahmin and Rajpoot had been promised, as a reward for helping to drive out the infidel, that no sacred kine should be killed in Hindustan.

And others besides the King objected to the restriction. Old Fâtma, for instance, Shumsha-deen the seal-cutter's wife, as she swathed her husband's white beard with pounded henna leaves to give it the orthodox red dye.

"What matters it, woman?" he replied sternly, but with an odd quaver in his voice. "There is a greater sacrifice than the blood of bulls and goats, and that I may yet offer this blessed Eed."

"And mayhap, mother," suggested the widowed, childless daughter-in-law, "a goat will serve our turn better than a stirk this year: there will be enough for offering, and belike there may be no feasting."

The old lady, high-featured, high-tempered, wept profusely between her railings at the ill-omened suggestion; but the old Turk admitted the possibility with a strained wondering look in the eyes which had lost their keenness with graving texts. So, as the day passed the women helped him faithfully in his bath of purification, and the daughter-in-law, having the steadiest hand, put the antimony into the old man's eyes as he squatted on a clean white cloth stretched in the center of the odd little courtyard. She used the stylus she had brought with her to the house as a bride, and it woke past memories in the old brain, making the black-edged old eyes look at the wife of his youth with a wistful tenderness. For it was years since a woman had performed the kindly office; not since the finery and folly of life had passed into the next generation's hands. But old Fâtma thought he still looked as handsome as any as he finally stepped into the streets in his baggy trousers with one green shawl twisted into a voluminous waistband, another into a turban, his flaming red beard flowing over his white tunic, and a curved scimitar—it was rather difficult to get out of its scabbard by reason of rust—at his side.

"Lo here comes old Fâtma's Shumsha-deen," whispered other women, peeping through other chinks. "He looks well for sure; better by far than Murri-am's Faiz-Ahmud for all his new gold shoes!"

And those two, daughter and mother-in-law, huddled in unaccustomed embrace to see the last of their martyr through the only convenient crack, felt a glow of pitiful pride before they fell a-weeping and a-praying the old pitiful prayer of quarrelers that God would be good to His own.

There were thousands in Delhi about sunsetting on the 1st of August praying that prayer, though there were hundreds who held aloof, talking learnedly of the House of Protection as distinguished from the House of the Enemy, as they listened to the evening call to prayer. How could there be Holy War, when that had echoed freely during the British rule? And Mohammed Ismail, listening to their arguments feverishly, knew in his heart that they were right.

But the old Shumsha-deens did not split hairs. So as the sun set they went forth in thousands and the gates were closed behind them; for they were to conquer or die. They were to hurl themselves recklessly on the low breastworks which now furrowed the long line of hill. Above all, on that which had crept down its side to a ruined temple within seven hundred yards of the Moree Bastion.

So, about the rising of the moon, two days from full, began such a cannonading and fusillading as was not surpassed even on that final day when the Ridge, taking similar heart of grace, was to fling itself against the city.

Major Erlton, off duty but on pleasure in the Saming-House breastwork, said to his neighbor that they must be mad, as a confused wild rush burst from the Moree gate. Six thousand or so of soldiers and Shumsha-deens with elephants, camels, field-pieces, distinct in the moonlight. And behind them came a hail of shell and shot, with them a rain of grape and musket-balls. But above all the din and rattle could be heard two things: The cries of the muezzins from the minarets, chanting to the four corners of Earth and Sky that "Glory is for all and Heaven for those who bleed," and an incessant bugling.

"It's that man in front," remarked Major Erlton. "Do you think we shall manage, Reid? There's an awful lot of them."

Major Reid looked round on his little garrison of dark faces; for there was not an Englishman in the post; only a hundred quaint squat Ghoorkas, and fifty tall fair Guides from the Western frontier.

"We'll do for just now, and I can send for the Rifles by and by. There's to be no pursuit, you know. The order's out. Ought to have been out long ago. Reserve your fire, men, till they come close up."

And come close they did, while Walidad Khân, fierce fanatic from Peshawur, and Gorakh-nâth, fiercer Bhuddist from Nepâl, with fingers on trigger, called on them jibingly to come closer still; though twenty yards from a breastwork bristling with rifles was surely close enough for anyone? But it was not for the bugler who led the van, sounding assemblies, advances, doubles; anything which might stir the hearts behind.

"He has got a magnificent pair of bellows," remarked an officer, who, after a time, came down with a hundred and fifty of the Rifles to aid that hundred and fifty natives in holding the post against six thousand and more of their countrymen.

"Splendid! he has been at it this hour or more," said Major Erlton. "I really think they are mad. They don't seem to aim or to care. There they are again!"

It was darker now, and Walidad Khân from Peshawur and Gorakh-nâth from Nepâl, and Bill Atkins from Lambeth had to listen for that tootling of assemblies and advances to tell them when to fire blindly from the embrazures into the smoke and the roar and the rattle. So they fell to wondering among themselves if they had nicked him that time. Once or twice the silence seemed to say they had; but after a bit the tootling began again, and a disappointed pair of eyes peeping curiously, recklessly, would see a dim figure running madly to the assault again.

"Plucky devil!" muttered Major Erlton as with the loan of a rifle he had his try. There was a look of hope on dark faces and white alike as they cuddled down to the rifle stocks and came up to listen. It was like shooting into a herd of does for the one royal head; and some of the sportsmen had tempers.

"Shaitân-ke-butcha!" (Child of the devil), muttered Walidad Khân, whereat Gorakh-nâth grinned from ear to ear.

"Wot cher laughin' at?" asked Bill Atkins, who had been indulging in language of his own. "A feller can't 'it ghosts. An' e's the piper as played afore Moses; that's what 'ee is."

"Look sharp, men!" came the officer's warning. "There's a new lot coming on. Wait and let them have it."

They did. The din was terrific. The incessant flashes lighting up the city, showed its roofs crowded with the families of absent Shumsha-deens. So High Heaven must have been assailed, indeed, that night.

And even when dawn came it brought no Sabbath calm. Only a fresh batch of martyrs. But they had no bugler; for with the dawn some fierce frontiersman, jesting Cockney, or grinning Ghoorkha may have risked his life for a fair shot in daylight at the piper who played before Moses. Anyhow, he played no more. Perhaps the lack of him, perhaps the torrents of rain which began to fall as the sun rose, quenched the fires of faith. Anyhow, by nine o'clock the din was over, the drum ecclesiastic ceased to beat, and the English going out to count the dead found the bugler lying close to the breastwork, his bugle still in his hand; a nameless hero save for that passing jest.

But someone in the city no doubt mourned the piper who played before Moses, as they mourned other martyrs. More than a thousand of them.

Yet the Ridge, despite the faith, and fury, and fusillading, had only to dig one grave; for fourteen hours of what the records call "unusual intrepidity"—contemptuously cool equivalent for all that faith and fury—had only killed one infidel.

Shumsha-deen's Fâtma, however, was as proud as if he had killed a hundred; for he had bled profusely for the faith, having been at the very outset of it all kicked by a camel and sent flying on to a rock to dream confused dreams of valor till the bleeding from his nose relieved the slight concussion of his brain, and enabled him to go home, much shaken, but none the worse.

But many hundreds of women never saw their Shum-sha-deens again, or if they saw them, only saw something to weep over and bind in white swaddling clothes and gold thread.

So by dark on the 2d of August the sound of wailing women rose from every alley, and the men, wandering restlessly about the bazaars, listened to the sound of tattoo from the Ridge and looked at each other almost startled.

"Go-to-bed-Tom! Go-to-bed-Tom! Drunk-or-sober-go-to-bed-Tom!"

The Day of Sacrifice was over, and Tom was going to bed quietly as if nothing had happened! They did not know that three-quarters of the Toms had been in bed the night before, undisturbed by the martyrs' supreme effort. If they had, they might have wondered still more persistently what Providence was about.

But in the big mosque, among the great white bars of moonlight slanting beneath the dome, one man knew. He stood, a tall white figure beneath a furled green banner, his arms outspread, his voice rising in fierce denunciation.

"Cursed^[5] be they who did the deed, who killed jehad! Lo! I told you in my dream in the past and ye would not believe. I tell it again that ye may know. It was dawn. And the Lord Christ and the Lord Mohammed sat over the World striving each for His own according to the Will of the Most High who sets men's quarrels before the Saints in Heaven with a commander to each. And I saw the Lord Christ weep, knowing that justice was on our side. So the fiat for victory went forth, and I slept. But I dreamed again and lo! it was eve with a blood-red sunsetting westward. And the Lord Christ wept still, but the Lord Mohammed's voice rang loud and stern. 'Reverse the fiat. Give the victory to the women and the children.' So I woke. And it is true! is true! Cursed be they who killed jehad!"

The voice died away among the arches where, in delicate tracery, the attributes of the Great Creator were cut into changeless marble. Truth, Justice, Mercy, all the virtues from which all religions make their God.

"He is mad," said some; but for the most part men were silent as they drifted down the great Flights-of-Steps to the city, leaving Mohammed Ismail alone under the dome.

"Didst expect otherwise, my Queen?" said Bukht Khân hardily. "So did not I! But the end is gained. Delhi was not ours in heart and soul before. It is now. When the assault comes those who fought for faith will fight for their skins. And at the worst there is Lucknow for good Sheeahs like the Queen and her slave. We have no tie here among these Sunnies who think only of their hoards."

Zeenut Maihl shrank from him with her first touch of fear, for she had eight or nine lakhs of rupees hidden in that very house. This man whom she had summoned to her aid bid fair to make flight necessary even for a woman. Had she ventured too much? Was there yet time to throw him over, throw everyone over and make her peace? She turned instinctively in her thoughts to one who loved money also, who also had hoards to save. And so, within half an hour of Bukht Khân's departure, Ahsan-Oolah was closeted with the Queen, who after the excitement of the day needed a cooling draught.

Most people in the Palace needed one that night, for by this time almost all the possible permutations of confederacy had come about, with the result that—each combination's intrigue being known to the next—a general distrust had fallen upon all. In addition, there was now a fourth Commander-in-Chief; one Ghaus Khân, from Neemuch, who declared the rest were fools.

In truth the Dream was wearing thin indeed within the Palace.

But on that peaceful little housetop in the Mufti's quarter it seemed more profound than ever; it seemed as if Fate was determined to leave nothing wanting to the strange unreal life that was being lived in the very heart of the city. Jim Douglas was almost himself again. A little lame, a little uncertain still of his own strength; and so, remembering a piece of advice given him by the old Baharupa never to attempt using the Gift when he was not strong enough for it to be strong, he had been patient beyond Kate's hopes. But on this 2d of August, after lying awake all night listening to the roar and the din, he had insisted on going out when Soma did not turn up as usual to bring the news. He would not be long, he said, not more than an hour or two, and the attempt must be made some time. At no better one than now, perchance, since folk would be occupied in their own affairs.

"Besides," he added with a smile, "I'm ready to allow the convalescent home its due. While I've been kept quiet the very thought of concealed Europeans has died out."

"I don't know!" she interrupted quickly. "It isn't long since Prince Abool-Bukr chased that blue-eyed boy of the Mufti's over the roofs thinking he was one—don't you remember I was so afraid he might climb up here?"

"That's the advantage of being up-top," he replied lightly. "Now, if anything were to happen, you could scramble down. But the Prince was drunk, and I won't go near his haunts—there isn't any danger—really there isn't!"

"I shall have to get accustomed to it even if there is," she replied in the same tone.

Jim Douglas paused at the door irresolutely. "Shall I wait till Tara returns?"

"No, please don't. She is not coming back till late. She grows restless if she does not go—and I am all right."

In truth Tara had been growing restless of late. Kate, looking up from the game of chess—at which her convalescent gave her half the pieces on the board and then beat her easily—used to find those dark eyes watching them furtively. Zora Begum had never played shatrïnj with the master, had never read with him from books, had never treated him as an equal. And, strangely enough, the familiar companionship—inevitable under the circumstances—roused her jealousy more than the love-making on that other terraced roof had done. That she understood. That she could crush with her cry of suttee. But this—this which to her real devotion seemed so utterly desirable; what did it mean? So she crept away, when she could, to take up the saintly role as the only certain solace she knew for the ache in her heart.

Therefore Kate sat alone, darning Jim Douglas' white socks—which as a better-class Afghan he was bound to wear—and thinking as she did so how incredibly domestic a task it was! Still socks had to be darned, and with Tara at hand to buy odds and ends, and Soma with his knowledge of the Huzoor's life ready to bring chessboards, and soap, and even a book or two, it seemed as if the roof would soon be a very fair imitation of home. So she sat peacefully till, about dusk, hearing a footfall on the stairs halting with long pauses between the steps; her vexation at her patient's evident fatigue overcame her usual caution; and without waiting for his signal knock she set the door wide and stepped out on to the stairs to give him a hand if need be. And then out of the shadow of the narrow brick ladder came a strange voice panting breathlessly:

"Salaam! mem-sahib." She started back, but not in time to prevent a bent figure with a bundle on its back from stumbling past her on to the roof; where, as if exhausted, it leaned against the wall before slipping the bundle to the floor. It was an ordinary brown blanket bundle full of uncarded cotton, and the old woman who carried it was ragged and feeble. Emaciated too beyond belief, as if cotton-spinning had not been able to keep soul and body comfortably together. Not a very formidable foe this—if foe it was. Why! surely she knew the face.

"I have brought Sonny back, Huzoor," came the breathless voice.

Sonny! Kate Erlton gave a little cry. She recollected now. "Oh, ayah!" she began recklessly, "what? where is he?"

The old woman stumbled to the door, closed the catch, and then leaned exhausted upon the lintel, sinking down slowly to a squatting position, her hand upon her heart. There was more in this than the fatigue of the stairs, Kate recognized.

"He is in the bundle, Huzoor. The mem did not know me. She will know the baba."

Know him! As her almost incredulous fingers fumbled at the knots, her mind was busy with an adorable vision of white embroideries, golden curls, and kissable, dimpled milk and roses. So it was no wonder that she recoiled from the ragged shift and dark skin, the black close-cropped hair shaved horribly into a wide gangway from nape to forehead.

"Oh, ayah!" she cried reproachfully, "what have you done to Sonny baba!" for Sonny it was unmistakably in the guise of a street urchin. A foolish remark to make, doubtless, but the old Mai, most of whose life had been passed in the curling of golden curls, the prinking of mother's darlings, did not think it strange. She looked wistfully at her charge, then at Kate apologetically.

"It was safer, Huzoor. And at least he is fat and fresh. I gave him milk and chikken-brât.^[6] And it was but a tiny morsel of opium just to make him quiet in the bundle."

Something in the quavering old voice made Kate cross quickly to the old woman and kneel beside her.

"You have done splendidly, ayah, no one could have done better!"

But the interest had died from the haggard face. "They said folk would be damned for it," she muttered half to herself, "but what could I do? The mem, my mem, said 'Take care of the boy.' So I gave him chikken-brât and milk." She paused, then looked up at Kate slowly. "But I can grind and spin no more, Huzoor. My life is done. So I have brought him here—and——" she paused again for breath.

"How did you find me out?" asked Kate, longing to give the old woman some restorative, yet not daring to offer it, for she was a Mussulmâni.

The old Mai reached out a skeleton of a hand, half-mechanically, to flick away a fluff of cotton wool from the still sleeping child's face. "It was the chikken-brât, Huzoor. The Huzoor will remember the old mess khânsaman? He did the pagul khanas [picnics] and nautches for the sahib logue. A big man with gold lace who made the cake at Christmas for the babas and set fire to plum-puddeens as no other khânsaman did. And made estârfit turkeys and sassets [stuffed turkey and sausages]—and——" She seemed afloat on a Bagh-o-bahâr list of comestibles, a dream of days when, as ayah, she had watched many a big dinner go from the cook room.

"But about the chikken-brât, ayah?" asked Kate with a lump in her throat; for the wasted figure babbling of old days was evidently close on death.

"Huzoor! Mungul Khân keeps life in him, these hard times, with the selling of eggs and fowls. So he, knowing me, said there was more chikken-brât than mine being made in the quarter. The Huzoor need have no fear. Mungul weeps every day and prays the sahibs may return, because his last month's account was not paid. A sweeper woman, he said, bought 'halflings' for an Afghan's bibi. As if an Afghani would use three halflings in one day! No one but a mem making chikken-brât would do that. So I watched and made sure, against this day; for I was old, and I had not spun or ground for long."

"You should have come before," said Kate gently. "You have worn yourself out."

The old woman stumbled to her feet. "My life was worn before, Huzoor. I am very old. I have put many boy-babies into the mem's arms to make them forget their pain, and taken them from them to put the flowers round them when they were dead. He was safer with me speaking our language; with you he may remember. But I shall be dead, so I can do no more."

"Wait, do wait till the sahib returns," pleaded Kate.

The Mai paused, her hand on the latch. "What have I to do with the sahibs, Huzoor? Mine were not much count. They made my mems cry, or laugh; cry first, then laugh. It is bad for mems. But my mem did not care, she only cared for the babies and so there was always a flower for the grave. Matadeen, the gardener, made it and the big Huzoor—Erlton sahib——"

She ceased suddenly and went mumbling down the stairs leaving Kate to close the door again and drop on her knees beside the sleeping child. Was he sleeping or had the opium——? She gave a sigh of relief as—her hair tickling his cheek as she bent to listen—up came a chubby unconscious hand to brush the tickle away.

Sonny! It seemed incredible. The house would be a home indeed with his sweet "Mifis Erlton" echoing through it. Not what the old Mai had said was true. There would be danger in English prattle. She must not tell him who she was. He must be kept as safe as that other child over across the seas whose empty place this one had partly filled; that other child who in all these storms and stress was, thank Heaven! so safe. She must deny herself that pleasure, and be content with this terribly disguised Sonny. Then she wondered if the dye came off as hers did; so with wet finger began trying the experiment on the child's cheek. A little; but perhaps soap and warm water might—She gathered Sonny in her arms and went over to the cooking-place. And there, to her unreasoning delight, after a space, was a square inch or so of milk and roses. It was trivial, of course; Mr. Greyman would say womanish, but she should like to see the real Sonny just once! She could dye him again. So, with the sleeping child on her lap, she began soft dabbings and wipings on the forehead and cheeks. It was a fascinating task and she forgot everything else; till, as she began work on the nose, what with the tickling and the tepid bathings dispelling the opium drowsiness, Sonny woke, and finding himself in strange arms began to scream horribly. And there she was forgetful of caution among other things, kissing and cuddling the frightened child, asking him if he didn't know her and telling him he was a good little Sonnikins whom nobody in the world would hurt! At which juncture, with brain started in a new-old groove, he said amid lingering sobs:

"Oh, Mifis Erlton! What has a-come of my polly?"

She recognized her slip in a second; but it was too late. And hark! Steps on the stair, and Sonny prattling on in his high, clear lisp! Not one step, but two; and voices. A visitor no doubt. Sometimes, to avoid suspicion, it was necessary to bring them in. She knew the routine. The modest claim for seclusion to her supposed husband in Persian, the leaving of the door on the latch, the swift retreat into the inner roof during the interval decorously allowed for such escape. All this was easy without Sonny. The only chance now was to stop his prattle even by force, give the excuse that other women were within, and trust to a man's quickness outside.

Vain hope! Sonny wriggled like an eel, and, just as the expected knock came, evaded her silencing hand, so that the roof rang with outraged yells:

"Oh! 'oo's hurtin' me! Oo's hurtin' me!"

Without the words even, the sound was unmistakable. No native child was ever so ear-piercing, so wildly indignant. Kate, beside herself, tried soothings and force distractedly, in the midst of which an imperative voice called fiercely:

"Open the door quick, for God's sake! Anything's better than that."

For the moment, doubtless, Sonny's yells ending with victory; but another cry came sharp and short, as—the door giving under Kate's hasty fingers—two men tumbled over the threshold. Jim Douglas uppermost, his hands gripping the other's throat.

"Shut the door!" he gasped. "Lock it. Then my revolver—no—a knife— no noise—quick. I can't hold—the brute long."

Kate turned and ran mechanically, and the steel in her hand gleamed as she flew back. Jim Douglas, digging his knees into the ribs below them, loosened one hand cautiously from the throat and held it out, trembling, eager.

But Kate saw his face. It might have been the Gorgon's, for she stood as if turned to stone.

"Don't be a fool!" he panted—"give it me! It's the only——" A sudden twist beneath him sent his hand back to the throat. "It's—it's death anyway——"

Death! What did that matter? she asked herself. Let it come, rather than murder!

"No!" she said suddenly, "you shall not. It is not worth it." The knife, flung backward, fell with a clang, but the eyes which—though that choking grip on the throat made all things dim—had been fixed on its gleam, turned swiftly to those above them and the writhing body lay still as a corpse. None too soon, for Jim Douglas was almost spent.

"A rope," he muttered briefly, "or stay, your veil will do."

But Kate, trembling with the great passion and pity of her decision, had scarce removed it ere Jim Douglas, changing his mind, rose to his feet, leaving his antagonist free to do so likewise.

"Get up, Tiddu," he said breathlessly, "and thank the mem for saving your life. But the door's locked, and if you don't swear——"

"The Huzoor need not threaten," retorted Tiddu, far more calmly as he retwisted his rag of a turban. "The Many-Faced know gratitude. They do not fall on those who find them helpless and protect them."

The thrust was keen, for in truth the old Baharupa had, not half an hour before, by sheer chance found his pupil in difficulties and insisted on seeing him safe home, and on his promising not to go out again till he was stronger; to both of which coercions Jim Douglas, in order to evade suspicion, had consented. Yet, but for Kate, he would have knifed the old man remorselessly. Even now he felt doubtful.

Tiddu, however, saved him further anxiety by stepping close to Kate and salaaming theatrically.

"By Murri-âm and the neem, the mem is as my mother, the child as my child."

So, for the first time, both he and Jim Douglas looked toward Sonny, who, with wide-planted legs and wondering eyes, had been watching Tiddu solemnly; the quaintest little figure with his red and white cheeks and black muzzle.

The old mime burst into a guffaw. "Wâh! what a monkeyling! Wâh! what a tamâsha" (spectacle), he cried, squatting down on his heels to look closer. In truth Sonny was like a hill baboon, especially when he smiled too; broadly, expectantly, at the familiar word.

"Tamathâ-wallah!" he said superbly, "bunao ramâtha, juldi bunao!" (Make an amusement; make it quick.)

Tiddu, a child himself like all his race in his delight in children, a child also in his capacity of sudden serenity, caught up Kate's fallen veil, and in an instant dashed into the hackneyed part of the daughter-in-law, while Kate and Jim Douglas stared; left behind, as it were, by this strange irresponsible pair—the mimic of life, and the child ignorant of what was mimicked. Tragedy a minute ago! Now Farce! They looked at each other, startled, for sympathy.

"Make a funny man now," came Sonny's confident voice, "a funny man behind a curtain—a funny man wif a gween face an' a white face, an' a lot of fwowers an' a bit o' tring."

Tiddu looked round quickly at Jim Douglas. "Wâh!" he said, "the little Huzoor has a good memory. He remembers the Lord of Life and Death."

But Kate had remembered it too, and she also had turned to Jim Douglas passionately, almost accusingly. "It was you! You were Fate—you—— Ah! I understand now!"

"Do you?" he answered with a frown. "Then it's more than I do." He walked away moodily toward the knife Kate had flung away, and stooped to pick it up. "But you were right in what you did. It was an inspiration. Look there!"

He pointed to the old Baharupa, who was playing antics to amuse Sonny, who lisped, "Thâ bâth!" (bravo!) solemnly at each fresh effort. But Kate shivered. "I did nothing. I thought I did; but it was Fate."

"My dear lady," he retorted with a kindly smile, "it is all in the nature of dreams. The convalescent home is turned into a crèche. But we must transfigure the street urchin into the darling of his parents' hearts——" He paused and looked at Kate queerly. "I'll tell Tara to rig him out properly; and you must take off half the stain, you know, and leave some color on his cheeks; for he must play the part as well as——" He laughed suddenly. "It is really more dream-like than ever!" he added. And Kate thought so too.

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