On the Face of the Waters

BOOK V
CHAPTER III

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

They drenched Kate Erlton also, despite the arcaded trees above her corner as she sat with her face to the wall in the wide old garden. At first her heart beat at each step on the walk behind her, but she soon realized that she was hidden by her vow, happed about from the possibility of intrusion by her penance. But not many steps came by her; they kept chiefly to the other end of the garden where Sri Anunda was to be found. It was a curious experience. There was a yard of two of thatch, screened by matting and supported by bamboos, leaning not far off against the wall; and into this she crept at night to find the indulgence of a dry blanket. At first she felt inclined to seek its shelter when the rain poured loudly on the leaves above her and fell thence in big blobs, making a noise like the little ripe figs when the squirrels shook them down; but the remembrance that such women as Tara performed like vows cheerfully kept her steady. And after a day or two she often started to find it was already noon or dusk, the day half gone or done. Time slipped by with incredible swiftness in watching the squirrels and the birds, in counting the raindrops fall from a peepul leaf. And what a strange peace and contentment the life brought! As she sat after dark in the thatch, eating the rice and milk and fruit which Tara brought her stealthily, she felt, at times, a terrified amaze at herself. If she ever came through the long struggle for life, this surely would be the strangest part of the dream. Tara, indeed, used to remark with a satisfied smile that though the mem could not of course be suttee, still she did very well as a devoted and repentant wife. Sri Anunda could never have had a better penitent. And then, in reply to Kate's curious questions, she would say that Sri Anunda was a Swâmi. If the mem once saw and spoke to him she would know what that meant. He had lived in the garden for fifteen years. Not as a penance. A Swâmi needed no penance as men and women did; for he was not a man. Oh, dear no! not a man at all.

So Kate, going on this hint of inhumanity, and guided by her conventional ideas of Hindoo ascetics, imagined a monstrosity, and felt rather glad than otherwise that Sri Anunda kept out of her way.

She was eager also to know how long she might have to stay in his garden. The vow, Tara said, lasted for fifteen days. Till then no one would question her right to sit and look at the wall; and by that time Soma would have returned, and a plan for getting the mem away to the Ridge settled. For the master was evidently not going to return to the city; perhaps he had forgotten the mem? Kate smiled at this, drearily, thinking that indeed he might; for he might be dead. But even this uncertainty about all things, save that she sat and watched the squirrels and the birds, had ceased to disturb her peace.

As a matter of fact, however, he was thinking of her more than ever, and with a sense of proprietorship that was new to him. Here, by God's grace, was the one woman for him to save; the somebody to kill, should he fail, needing no selection. There were enough enemies and to spare within the walls still, even though they had been melting away of late. But a new one had come to the Ridge itself, which, though it killed few, sapped steadily at the vigor of the garrison. This was the autumnal fever, bad at Delhi in all years, worse than usual in this wet season, counterbalancing the benefit of the coolness and sending half a regiment to hospital one day and letting them out of it the next, sensibly less fit for arduous work. It claimed Jim Douglas, already weakened by it, and made his wound slow of healing.

"You haven't good luck certainly," said Major Erlton, finding him with chattering teeth taking quinine dismally. "I don't know how it is, but though I'm a lot thinner, this life seems to suit me. I haven't felt so fit for ages."

He had not been so fit, in truth. It was a healthier, simpler life than he had led for many a long year; and ever since John Nicholson had bidden him go back to his tent and sleep, even the haggardness had left his face; the restlessness having been replaced by an eager certainty of success. He was coming steadily to the front, too, so the Ridge said, since Nicholson had taken him up. And he had well deserved this, since there was not a better soldier; cool, stubborn, certain to carry out orders. The very man, in short, whom men like the General wanted; and if he stayed to the finish he would have a distinguished career before him.

But Herbert Erlton himself never thought of this; he hated thought instinctively, and of late had even given up thinking of the city. He never sat and watched the rose-red walls now. Perhaps because he was too busy. So he left that to Jim Douglas, who had nothing else to do, while he went about joyously preparing to accompany Nicholson in his next lesson of law and order.

For in the city it was becoming more and more difficult every day to make the lies pass muster, even in the Palace; and so, in despair, the four Commanders-in-Chief for once had laid their heads together and concocted a plan for intercepting the siege train from Ferozpur. So it was necessary that they should be taught the futility of such attempts. Not that even the Palace people really believed them possible. How could they? when almost every day, now, letters came to the Ridge from some member or another of the Royal family asking effusively how he could serve the English cause. Only the old King, revising his lists of precedence, listening still to brocaded bags, taking cooling draughts, making couplets, being cozened by the Queen, and breathed upon by Hussan Askuri, hovered between the policy of being the great Moghul and a poor prisoner in the hands of fate. But the delights of the former were too much for him as a rule, and he would sit and finger the single gold coin which had come as a present from Oude as if he were to have the chance of minting millions with a similar inscription.

"Bahâdur Shâh Ghâzee has struck upon gold the coin of Victory."

Even in its solitary grandeur it had, in truth, a surpassing dignity of its own in the phrase—"struck upon gold the coin of Victory." So, looking at it, he forgot that it was a mere sample, sent, as the accompanying brocaded bag said, with a promise to pay more when more victory brought more gold. But Zeenut Maihl, as she looked at it, thought with a sort of fury of certain gold within reach, hidden in her house. What was to become of these coins with John Company's mark on them? For she still lingered in the Palace. Other women had fled, but she was wiser than they. She knew that, come what might, her life was safe with the English as victors; so there was nothing but the gold to think of. The gold, and Jewun Bukht, her son. The royal signet was in her possession altogether now, and sometimes the orders, especially when they were for payment of money, had to go without it, because "the Queen of the World was asleep." But she did not dream. That was over; though in a way she clung fiercely to hope. So Ghaus Khân with the Neemuch Brigade, and Bukht Khân with the Bareilly Brigade, and Khair Sultân with the scrapings and leavings of the regiments, who, owning no leader of their own, did what was right in their own eyes, set out to intercept the big guns; and Nicholson set out on the dawn of the 25th to intercept them.

The rain poured down in torrents, the guns sank to their axles in mud, the infantry slipped and slithered, the cavalry were blinded by the mire from the floundering horses. So from daybreak till sunset the little force, two thousand in all—more than one-half of whom were natives—labored eighteen miles through swamps. At noon, it is true, they called a halt nine miles out at a village where the women clustered on the housetops in wild alarm, remembering a day—months back—when they had clustered round an unleavened cake, and the head-man's wife had bidden them listen to the master's gun over the far horizon.

They were to listen to it again that day. For the enemy was ten miles further over the marshes; and it was but noon. The force, no doubt, had been afoot since four; but General Nicholson was emphatically not an eight-hour man. So the shovings and slitherings of guns and mortals began again cheerfully.

Still it was nigh on sundown when, across a deep stream flowing from the big marshes to the west, these contract-workers came on the job they were eager to finish ere nightfall. Six thousand rebels of all arms, holding three villages, a bastioned old serai, and a town. It was a strong position, in the right angle formed by the stream and the flooded canal into which it flowed. Water, impassable save by an unknown ford in the stream, by a bridge held in force over the canal, on two sides of it. On the others dismal swamps. A desperately strong position to attack at sundown after eighteen miles slithering and shoving in the pouring rain; especially with unknown odds against you. Not less, anyhow, than three to one. But John Nicholson had, a single eye; that is, an eye which sees one salient point. Here, it was that bridge to the left, leading back to safe shelter within the walls of Delhi. A cowardly foe must have no chance of using that bridge during silent night watches. So, without a pause, fifteen hundred of the two thousand waded breast-high across the stream to attack the six thousand, Nicholson himself riding ahead for a hasty reconnoissance, since the growing dusk left scant leisure for anything save action. Yet once more a glance was sufficient; and, ere the men, exposed to a heavy fire of grape in crossing the ford, were ready to advance, the orders were given.

There was a hint of cover in some rising ground before the old serai—the strongest point of the defense. He would utilize this, rush the position, change front, and sweep down on the bridge. That must not remain as a chance for cowards an instant longer than he could help; for Nicholson in everything he did seems never to have contemplated defeat.

So flanked by the guns, supported by squadrons of the 9th Lancers and the Guides cavalry, the three regiments^[7] marched steadily toward the rising ground, following that colossal figure riding, as ever, ahead. Till suddenly, as his charger's feet touched the highest ground, Nicholson wheeled and held up his hand to those below him.

"Lie down, men!" came his clear strong voice as he rode slowly along the line; "lie down and listen to what I've got to say. It's only a few words."

So, sheltered from the fire, they lay and listened. "You of the 61st know what Sir Colin Campbell said to you at Chillianwallah. He said the same thing to others at the Alma. I say it to you all now. 'Hold your fire till within twenty or thirty yards of that battery, and then, my boys! we will make short work of it!'"

Men cannot cheer lying on their stomachs, but the unmelodious grunt—"We will, sir, by God, we will!"—was as good as one.

Nicholson faced round on the serai again, and gave the order to the artillery. So, in sharp thuds widening into a roar, the flanking guns began work. Half a dozen rounds or so, and then the rider—motionless as a statue in the center—looked back quickly, waved his sword, and went on. The men were up, after him, over the hillock, into the morass beyond, silently.

"Steady, men! steady with it. On with you! Steady!"

They listened to the clear sonorous voice once more, though there was no shelter now from the grape and canister, and musket balls; or rather only the shelter of that one tall figure ahead riding at a foot's-pace.

"Steady! Hold your fire! I'll give the word, never fear! Come on! Come on!"

So through a perfect bog they stumbled on doggedly. Here and there a man fell; but men will fall sometimes. "Now then! Let them have it."

They were within the limit. Twenty yards off lay the guns. There was one furious volley; above it one word answered by a cheer.

So at the point of the bayonet the serai was carried. Then without a pause the troops changed front with a swiftness unforeseen and swept on to the left.

"To Delhi, brothers! To Delhi!" The old cry, begun at Meerut, rose now with a new meaning as the panic-stricken guns limbered up and made for the bridge. Too late! Captain Blunt's were after them, chasing them. The wheel of the foremost, driven wildly, jammed; those following couldn't pull up. So, helter skelter, they were in a jumble, out of which Englishmen helped the whole thirteen! The day, or rather the night, was won; for Nature's dark flag of truce hung even between the assailants and the few desperate defenders of the third village, who, with escape cut off, were selling their lives at a cost to the attackers of seventeen out of that total death-roll of twenty-five. But Nicholson knew his position sure, so he left night to finish the rout, and, with his men, bivouacked without food or cover among the marshes; for it was too dark to get the baggage over the ford. Yet the troops were ready to start at daybreak for an eighteen miles tramp back to the Ridge again. There was no talk of exhaustion now, as at Budli-ke-serai; so just thirty-six hours after they started, that is, just one hour for every mile of morass and none for the fight, they startled the Ridge by marching in again and clamoring for food! But Nicholson was in a towering temper. He had found that another brigade had been lurking behind the canal, and that if he had had decent information he might have smashed it also, on his way home.

"He hadn't even a guide that he didn't pick up himself," commented Major Erlton angrily. "By George! how those niggers cave in to him! And his political information was all rot. If the General had obeyed instructions he would have been kicking his heels at Bahâdagurh still."

"We heard you at it about two o'clock," said a new listener. "I suppose it was a night attack—risky business rather."

Herbert Erlton burst into a laugh; but the elation on his face had a pathetic tenderness in it. "That was the bridge, I expect. He blew it up before starting. He sat on it till then. Besides there were the wagons and tumbrils and things. He told Tombs to blow them up, too, for of course he had to bring the guns back, and he couldn't shove the lot."

As he passed on some of his listeners smiled.

"It's a case of possession," said one to his neighbor.

"Pardon me," said another, who had known the Major for years. "It's a case of casting out. I wonder——" The speaker paused and shrugged his shoulders.

"Did you hear his name had gone up for the V. C.?" began his companion.

"Gone up! My dear fellow! It might have gone up fifty times over. But it isn't his pluck that I wonder at; it is his steadiness. He never shirks the little things. It is almost as if he had found a conscience."

Perhaps he had. He was cheerful enough to have had the testimony of a good one, as, in passing, he looked in on Jim Douglas and met his congratulations.

"Bad shilling!" replied the Major, beautifully unconscious. "So you've heard—and—hello! what's up?" For Jim Douglas was busy getting into disguise.

"That old scoundrel Tiddu came into camp with the news an hour ago," said the latter, whose face was by no means cheerful. "He was out carrying grain—saw the fugitives, and came in here, hoping for backsheesh, I believe. But"—Jim Douglas looked round rapidly at the Major—"I'm awfully afraid, Erlton, that he has not been in Delhi, to speak of, since I left. And I was relying on him for news——"

"There isn't any—is there?" broke in Major Erlton with a queer hush in his voice.

"None. But there may be. So I'm off at once. I couldn't have a better chance. The villain says the sepoys are slipping in on the sly in hundreds; for the Palace folk, or at least the King, thinks the troops are still engaged, and is sending out reinforcements. So I shall have no trouble in getting through the gates."

Major Erlton, radiant, splashed from head to foot, covered at once with mud and glory, looked at the man opposite him with a curious deliberation.

"I don't see why you should go at all," he said slowly. "I wouldn't, if I—I mean I would rather you didn't."

"Why?" The question came sharply.

"Do you want the truth?" asked Herbert Erlton with a sudden frown.

"Certainly."

"Then I'll tell it, Mr. Greyman—I mean Douglas—I—I'm grateful, but—d——n me, sir, if—if I want to be more so! I—I gave you my chance once—like a fool; for I might have saved her——"

The hard handsome face was all broken up with passionate regret, and the pity of it kept Jim Douglas silent for a moment. For he understood it.

"You might," he said at last. "But I don't interfere with you here. You can't save her—your wife, I mean—and if I fail you can always——"

"There is no need to tell me what to do then," interrupted Major Erlton grimly. "I'll do it without your help."

He turned on his heel, then paused. "It isn't that I'm ungrateful," he repeated, almost with an appeal in his voice. "And I don't mean to be offensive; only you and I can't——"

His own mental position seemed beyond him, and he stood for a moment irresolute. Then he held out his hand.

"Well, good-by. I suppose you mean to stick to it?"

"I mean to stick to it. Good-by."

"And I must be off to my bed. Haven't slept a wink for two nights, and I shall be on duty to-morrow. Well! I believe I've as good a chance of seeing Kate here as you have of finding her there; but I can't prevent your going, of course."

So he went off to his bed, and Jim Douglas, following Tiddu, who was waiting for him in the Koodsia Gardens, carried out his intention of sticking to it; while John Nicholson in his tent, forgetful of his advice to both of them, was jotting down notes for his dispatch. One of them was: "The enemy was driven from the serai with scarcely any loss to us, and made little resistance as we advanced." The other was: "Query? How many men in buckram? Most say seven or eight thousand. I think between three and four."

He had, indeed, a vile habit of telling the truth, even in dispatches. So ended the day of Nujjufghar.

The next morning, the 27th, broke fine and clear. Kate Erlton waking with the birds, found the sky full of light already, clear as a pale topaz beyond the overarching trees.

She stood after leaving her thatch, looking into the garden, lost in a sort of still content. It seemed impossible she should be in the heart of a big city. There was no sound but the faint rustling of the wet leaves drying themselves in the soft breeze, and the twitterings of squirrels and birds. There was nothing to be seen but the trees, and the broad paths rising above the flooding water from the canal-cut which ran at the further side.

And Sri Anunda had lived here for fifteen years; while she? How long had she been there? She smiled to herself, for, in truth, she had lost count of days altogether, almost of Time itself. She was losing hold of life. She told herself this, with that vague amaze at finding it so. Yes she was losing her grip on this world without gaining, without even desiring, a hold on the next. She was learning a strange new fellowship with the dream of which she was a part, because it would soon be past; because the trees, the flowers, the birds, the beasts, were mortal as herself. A squirrel, its tail a-fluff, was coming down the trunk of the next tree in fitful half-defiant jerks, its bright eyes watching her. The corner of her veil was full of the leavings of her simple morning meal, which she always took with her to scatter under the trees; and now, in sudden impulse, she sank down to her knees and held a morsel of plantain out tenderly.

Dear little mortal, she thought, with a new tenderness, watching it as it paused uncertain; until the consciousness that she was being watched in her turn made her look up; then pause, as she was, astonished, yet not alarmed, at the figure before her. It was neither tall nor short, dark nor fair, and it was wrapped from knee to shoulder in a dazzling white cloth draped like a Greek chiton, which showed the thin yet not emaciated curves of the limbs, and left the poise of the long throat bare. The head was clean shaven, smooth as the cheek, and the face, destitute even of eyebrows, was softly seamed with lines and wrinkles which seemed to leave it younger, and brighter, as if in an eternity of smile-provoking content. But the eyes! Kate felt a strange shock, as they brought back to her the innocent dignity Raphael gave to his San-Sistine Bambino. For this was Sri Anunda; could be no one else. In his hand he held a bunch of henna-blossom, the camphire of Scripture, the cypress of the Greeks; yellowish green, insignificant, incomparably sweet. He held it out to her, smiling, then laid it on her outstretched hand.

"The lesson is learned, sister," he said softly. "Go in peace, and have no fear."

The voice, musical exceedingly, thrilled her through and through. She knelt looking after him regretfully as, without a pause, he passed on his way. So that was a Swâmi! She went back to her corner—for already early visitors were drifting in for Sri Anunda's blessing—and with the bunch of henna-blossom on the ground before her sat thinking.

What an extraordinary face it was! So young, so old. So wise, so strangely innocent. Tara was right. It was not a man's face. Yet it could not be called angelic, for it was the face of a mortal. Yes! that was it, a mortal face immortal through its mortality; through the circling wheel of life and death. The strong perfume of the flowers reaching her, set her a-thinking of them. Did he always give a bunch when the penance was over and say the lesson was learned? It was a significant choice, these flowers of life and death. For bridal hands had been stained with henna, and corpses embalmed with it for ages, and ages, and ages. Or was that "peace go with you," that "have no fear" meant as an encouragement in something new? Had they been making plans? had anything happened? She scarcely seemed to care. So, as the cloudless day passed on, she sat looking at the henna-blossom and thinking of Sri Anunda's face.

But something had happened. Jim Douglas had come back to the city and Tara knew it. She had barely escaped his seeing her, and she felt she could not escape it long. And then, it seemed to her, the old life would begin again; for she would never be able to keep the truth from him. The mem might talk of deceit glibly; but if it came to telling lies to the master she would fail.

There was only one chance. If she could get the mem safely out of the city at once; then she could tell the truth without fear. The necessity for immediate action came upon her by surprise. She had ceased to expect the master's return, she had not cared personally for Kate's safety, and so had been content to let the future take care of itself. But now everything was changed. If Kate were not got rid of, sent out of the city, one of two things must happen: The master must be left to get her out as best he could, at the risk of his life; or she, Tara, must return to the old allegiance; return and sit by, while the mem in a language she did not understand, told the Huzoor how she had been willing to be suttee for him!

So while Kate sat looking at the henna-blossom, Tara sat telling herself that at all costs, all risks, she must be got out of the city that night. She, and her jewels. They were at present tied up in a bundle in Tara's room, but the Huzoor might think her a thief if the mem went without them. And another thing she decided. She would not tell the mem the reason of this sudden action. True, Kate had professed herself determined that the master should not risk his life for her again; but women were not—not always—to be trusted. For the rest, Soma must help.

She waited till dusk, however, before appealing to him, knowing that her only chance lay in taking him by storm, in leaving him no time for reflection. So, just as the lights were beginning to twinkle in the bazaars, she made her way, full of purpose, to the half ruined sort of cell in the thickness of the wall not far from the sally-port, in which of late—since he had taken morosely to drugs—he was generally to be found at this time, waking drowsily to his evening meal before going out.

She found him thus, sure enough, and began at once on her task. He must help. He could easily pass out the mem. That was all she asked of him. But his handsome face settled into sheer obstinacy at once. He was not going to help anyone, he said, or harm anyone, till they struck the first blow, and then they had better defend themselves. That was the end. And so it seemed; for after ten minutes of entreaty, he stood up with something of a lurch ere he found his feet, and bid her go. She only wasted her time and his, since he must eat his food ere he went to relieve the sentry at the sally-port.

She caught him up reproachfully, almost indignantly.

"Then thou art there, on guard! and it needs but the opening of a door, a thrusting of a woman out—to—die, perchance, Soma. Remember that!"

She spoke with a feverish eagerness, as if the suggestion had its weight with her, but he treated it contemptuously.

"Loh!" he said in scorn. "What a woman's word! Thank the Gods I was not born one."

The taunt bit deep, and Tara drew herself up angrily. So the brother and sister stood face to face, strangely alike.

"Wast not?" she retorted bitterly. "The Gods know. Is there not woman in man, and man in woman, among those born at a birth? Soma! for the sake of that—do this for me——" It was her last appeal; she had kept it for the last, and now her somber eyes were ablaze with passionate entreaty. "See, brother! I claim it of you as a right. Thou didst take my sainthood from me once. Count this as giving it back again."

"Back again?" echoed Soma thickly. "What fool's talk is this?"

"Let it be fool's talk, brother," she interrupted, with a strange intensity in her voice. "I care not—thou dost not know; I cannot tell thee. But—but this will be counted to thee in restitution. Soma! think of it as my sainthood! Sure thou dost owe me it! Somal for the sake of the hand which lay in thine."

In her excitement she moved a step forward, and he shrank back instinctively. True, she was a saint in another way if those scars were true; but—at the moment, being angry with her, he chose to doubt, to remember. "Stand back!" he cried roughly, unsteadily. "What do I owe thee? What claim hast thou?"

The question, the gesture outraged her utterly. The memory of a whole life of vain struggling after self-respect surged to her brain, bringing that almost insane light to her eyes. "What?" she echoed fiercely—"this!" Ere he could prevent it, her hand was in his, gripping it like a vice.

"So in the beginning—so in the end!" she gasped, as he struggled with her madly. "Tara and Soma hand in hand. Nay! I am strong as thou."

She spoke truth, for his nerve and muscle were slack with opium; yet he fought wildly, striking at her with his left hand, until in a supreme effort she lost her footing, they both staggered, and he—as she loosed her hold—fell backward, striking his head against a projecting brick in the ruined wall.

"Soma!" she whispered to his prostrate figure, "art hurt, brother? Speak to me!"

But he lay still, and, with a cry, she flung herself on her knees beside him, feeling his heart, listening to his breathing, searching for the injury. It was a big cut on the crown of the head; but it did not seem a bad one, and she began to take his unconsciousness more calmly. She had seen folk like that before from a sudden fall, and they came to themselves, none the worse, after a while. But scarcely, here, in time to relieve guard.

She stood up suddenly and looked round her. Soma's uniform hung on a peg, his musket stood in a corner.

Half an hour after this, Kate, waiting in the thatch for Tara to come as usual, gave a cry, more of surprise than alarm, as a tall figure, in uniform, stepped into the flickering light of the cresset.

"Soma!" she cried, "what is it?"

A gratified smile came to the curled mustachios. "Soma or Tara, it matters not," replied a familiar voice. "They were one in the beginning. Quick, mem-sahib. On with the jewels. I have a dark veil too for the gate."

Kate stood up, her heart throbbing. "Am I to go, then? Is that what Sri Anunda meant?"

"Sri Anunda! hath he been here?" Tara paused, sniffed, and once more those dark eyes met the light ones with a fierce jealousy. "He hath given thee henna-blossom. I smell it; and he gives it to none but those who—— So the Swâmi's lesson is learned—and the disciple can go in peace——" She broke off with a petulant laugh. "Well! so be it. It ends my part. The mem will sleep among her own to-night; Sri Anunda hath said it. Come——"

"But how? I must know how," protested Kate.

The laugh rose again. "Wherefore? The mem is Sri Anunda's disciple. For the rest, I will let the mem out through the little river-gate. There is a boat, and she can go in peace."

There was something so wild, so almost menacing in Tara's face, that Kate felt her only hope was to obey. And, in good sooth, the scent of the henna-blossom she carried with her, tucked into her bosom, gave her, somehow, an irrational hope that all would go well as she followed her guide swiftly through the alleys and bazaars.

"The mem must wait here," whispered Tara at last, pausing behind one of the ungainly mausoleums in what had been the old Christian cemetery. "When she hears me singing Sonny-baba's song, she must follow to the Water-gate. It is behind the ruins, there."

Kate crouched down, setting her back, native fashion, against the tomb. And as she waited she wondered idly what mortal lay there; so, being strangely calm, she let her fingers stray to the recess she felt behind her. There should be a marble tablet there; and even in the dark she might trace the lettering. But the recess was empty, the marble having evidently been picked out. So it was a nameless grave. And the next? She moved over to it stealthily, then to the next. But the tablets had been taken out of all and carried off—for curry-stones most likely. So the graves were nameless; those beneath them mortals—nothing more. As she waited under the stars, her mind reverted to Sri Anunda and the Wheel of Life and Death. The immortality of mortality! Was that the lesson which was to let her go in peace?

She started from the thought as that native version of the "Happy Land" came, nasally, from behind the ruins. As she passed them, a group of men were squatted gossiping round a hookah, and more than one figure passed her. But a woman with her veil drawn, and a clank of anklets on her feet, did not even invite a curious eye; for it was still early enough for such folk to be going home.

Then, as she passed down a flight of steps, a hand stole out from a niche and drew her back into a dark shadow. The next minute, with a low whisper, "There is no fear! Sri Anunda hath said it. Go in peace!" she felt herself thrust through a door into darkness. But a feeble glimmer showed below her, and creeping down another flight of steps, she found herself outside Delhi, looking over the strip of low-lying land where in the winter the buffaloes had grazed beneath Alice Gissing's house, but which was now flooded into a still backwater by the rising of the river. And out of it the stunted kikar and tamarisks grew strangely, their feathery branches arching over it. But to the left, beyond the Water Bastion, rose a mass of darker foliage—the Koodsia Gardens. Once there she would be beyond floods, and Tara had said there was a boat. Kate found it, moored a little further toward the river—a flat-bottomed punt, with a pole. It proved easier to manage than she had expected; for the water was shallow, and the trunks and branches of the trees helped her to get along, so that after a time she decided on keeping to that method of progress as long as she could. It enabled her to skirt the river bank, where there were fewer lights telling of watch-fires. Besides, she knew the path by the river leading to Metcalfe House. It might be under water now; but if she crept into the park at the ravine—if she could take the boat so far—she might manage to reach Metcalfe House. There was an English picket there, she knew. So, as she mapped out her best way, a sudden recollection came to her of the last time she had seen that river path, when her husband and Alice Gissing were walking down it, and Captain Morecombe——

Ah! was it credible? Was it not all a dream? Could this be real—could it be the same world?

She asked herself the question with a dull indifference as she struggled on doggedly.

But not more than two hours afterward the conviction that the world had not changed came upon her with a strange pang as she stood once more on the terrace of Metcalfe House with English faces around her.

"By Heaven, it's Mrs. Erlton!" she heard a familiar voice say. It seemed to her hundreds of miles away in some far, far country to which she had been journeying for years. "Here! let me get hold of her—and fetch some water—wine—anything. How—how was it, Sergeant?"

"In a boat, sir, coming hand over hand down at the stables. She sang out quite calmly she was an English-woman, and——"

"Then—then they touched their caps to me," said Kate, making an effort, "and so I knew that I was safe. It was so strange; it—it rather upset me. But I am all right now, Captain Morecombe."

"We had better send up for Erlton," said another officer aside; but Kate caught the whisper.

"Please not. I can walk up to cantonments quite well. And—I would rather have no fuss—I—I couldn't stand it."

She had stood enough and to spare, agreed the little knot of men with a thrill at their hearts as they watched her set off in the moonlight with Captain Morecombe and an orderly. They were to go straight to the Major's tent; and if he was still at mess, which was more than likely, since it was only half-past nine, Captain Morecombe was to leave her there and go on with the news. There would be no fuss, of that she might be sure, said the latter, forbearing even to speak to her on the way, save to ask her if she felt all right.

"I feel as if I had just been born," she said slowly. In truth, she was wondering if that spinning of the Great Wheel toward Life again brought with it this forlornness, this familiarity.

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