It was a long time before the two lovers were sufficiently composed to explain to each other fully the almost fabulous events that had lately occurred.

Heideck, of course, wanted to know, first of all, how Edith had contrived to escape without making a disturbance and calling for the aid of those about her. What she told him was the most touching proof of her affection for him. The Maharajah’s creatures must have heard, somehow or other, of Heideck’s imprisonment and condemnation, and they had reckoned correctly on Edith’s attachment to the man who had saved her life.

She had been told that a single word from the Maharajah would be sufficient to destroy the foolhardy German, and that her only hope of saving him from death lay in a personal appeal to His Highness’s clemency. Although she knew perfectly well the shameful purpose this suggestion concealed, she had not hesitated, in her anxiety for her dear one’s safety, to follow the men who promised to conduct her to the Maharajah, full of hypocritical assurances that she would come to no harm. She had had so many proofs of the revengeful cruelty of this Indian despot that she feared the worst for Heideck, and resolved, in the last extremity, to sacrifice her life—if she could not preserve her honour—to save him.

The Maharajah had received her with great courtesy and promised to use his influence in favour of the German who had been seized as a spy and traitor by the Russians. But he had at the same time thrown out fairly broad hints what his price would be, and, from the moment she had delivered herself into his hands, he had treated her as a prisoner, although with great respect. All communication, except with persons of the Maharajah’s household, was completely cut off; and she was under no delusion as to the lot which awaited her, as soon as the Prince again felt himself completely secure in some mountain fastness unaffected by the events of the war.

Feeling certain of this, she had continually contemplated the idea of flight; but the fear of sealing the fate of her unhappy friend, even more than the ever-watchful suspicion of her guards, had prevented her from making the attempt.

Her joy had been all the greater when, the same evening, Morar Gopal appeared in the women’s tent with the Circassian, to relieve her from the almost unendurable tortures of uncertainty as to Heideck’s fate.

The cunning Hindu had managed to gain access to the carefully guarded prisoners for himself and his companion by pretending that the Maharajah had chosen the Circassian girl to be the English lady’s servant. He had whispered a few words to Edith, telling her what was necessary for her to know for the moment.

After he had retired, it roused no suspicion when she asked to be left alone for a few moments with the new servant. With her assistance, she made use of the opportunity to put on the light Indian man’s clothes which the Circassian had brought with her in a parcel. The guards, who were by this time intoxicated, had allowed the slender young rajah, into whom she had transformed herself, to depart unmolested, and Morar Gopal, who was waiting for her at a place agreed upon close at hand, had conducted her to Heideck’s tent, where she might, for the moment at least, consider herself to be safe.

“But Georgi?” asked the Captain with some anxiety. “She remained in the women’s tent? What will happen to her when her share in your flight is discovered?”

“The idea also tormented me. But the heroic girl repeatedly assured me that she would find a way to escape, and that in any case she would have nothing to fear, as soon as she appealed to Prince Tchajawadse.”

“That may be so; but that hardly agrees with her wish to keep the fact of her presence in the camp a secret from the Prince. The girl’s behaviour is a complete riddle to me. I do not understand what can have induced her to sacrifice herself with such wonderful unselfishness for us, who are really only strangers to her, in whom she can feel no interest. Certainly she was not actuated by any thought of a reward. She has the pride of her race, and I am certain that she would consider any offer of one as an insult.”

“I think the same. But perhaps I can guess her real motives.”

“And won’t you tell me what you think?”

Edith hesitated a little; but she was not one of those women who allow any petty emotion to master them.

“I think, my friend, that she loves you,” she said, with a slight, enchanting smile. “Some unguarded expressions and the fire that kindled in her eyes as soon as we mentioned your name, made me feel almost certain of it. The fact that, notwithstanding, she helped to set me free, is certainly, in the circumstances, only a stronger proof of her magnanimity. But I understand it perfectly. A woman in love, if of noble character, is capable of any act of self-denial.”

Heideck shook his head.

“I think your shrewdness has played you false on this occasion. I am firmly convinced that she is Prince Tchajawadse’s mistress, and, from all I have seen of their relations, it seems to me inconceivable that she would be unfaithful to him for the sake of a stranger, with whom she has only interchanged a few casual words.”

“Well, perhaps we may have an opportunity of settling whether I am wrong or not. But now, my friend, I should first of all like to know what you have decided about me.”

Heideck was in some embarrassment how to answer, and spoke hesitatingly of his intention to send her to Ambala with Morar Gopal. But Edith would not allow him to finish. She interrupted him with a decided gesture of dissent.

“Ask of me what you like—except to leave you again. What shall I do in Ambala without you? I have suffered so unutterably since you were carried off before my eyes at Anar Kali, that I will die a thousand times rather than again expose myself to the torture of such uncertainty.”

A noise behind him made Heideck turn his head. He saw the curtain before the door of the tent slightly lifted, and that it was Morar Gopal who had attempted to draw his attention by coughing discreetly.

He called to the loyal fellow to come in, and thanked him, not condescendingly, as a master recognises the cleverness of his servant, but as one friend thanks another.

The Hindu’s features showed how delighted he was by the kindness of his idolised master, although there was no alteration in his humble and modest demeanour even for a moment. As respectful as ever, he said: “I bring good news, sahib. One of the Maharajah’s retinue, whose tongue I loosened with some of your rupees, has told me that the Maharajah of Sabathu is going to give the Russians forty horsemen to show them the best roads to Simla. The country here is under his rule, and his people know every inch of ground to the top of the mountains. If the lady joins these horsemen to-morrow in the dress of a rajah, she will be sure to get away from here unmolested.”

The excellence and practicability of this plan was obvious, and Heideck again recognised what a treasure a lucky accident had bestowed upon him in the shape of this Indian boy. Edith also agreed, since she saw how joyfully Heideck welcomed the proposal, although the prospect of being obliged to show herself in broad daylight before everybody in man’s dress was painful to her feelings as a woman.

She asked Morar Gopal whether he had heard anything of Georgi in the meantime. He nodded assent.

“I was talking to her half an hour ago. She had escaped from the women’s tent and was on the point of leaving the camp.”

“What?” cried Heideck. “Where in the world did she intend to go?”

“I don’t know, sahib. She was very sad, but when I asked her to accompany me to the sahib, she said she did not want to see him and the lady again; she sent her respects to the sahib, and begged him to remember his promise that he would say nothing to Prince Tchajawadse of her having been here.”

Heideck and Edith exchanged a significant look. This singular girl’s behaviour set them riddles which for the moment they were unable to solve. But it was only natural and human that in their own affairs they very soon forgot the Circassian.

Edith had to consent to Heideck leaving his tent at her disposal for the rest of the night, while he himself spent the few hours before daybreak at one of the bivouac fires. But Morar Gopal was to take up his quarters before the entrance to the tent, and Heideck felt confident that he could not entrust his valuable treasure to a more loyal keeper.

. . . . . . .

Fortune, which had reunited the lovers in so wonderful a manner, still continued favourable to them. Very early on the following day, Heideck had purchased a neat little bay horse, already saddled and bridled, for Edith’s use. When the troop of Indian horsemen, who were to serve as guides and spies for the Russians, started on their way, the boyish young rajah joined them, and no one made his strange appearance the subject of obtrusive questions. The Indians probably at first thought he was a very youthful Russian officer, who wore the native dress for special reasons, and on that account preserved a most respectful demeanour. Tchajawadse, who accidentally found himself close to Edith before starting, said nothing, although he certainly looked keenly at her for a moment.

The bad reports of the health of the Maharajah of Chanidigot, which spread through the camp, were sufficient explanation why he made no attempt to regain possession of the beautiful fugitive. He was said to be suffering from such violent pain and fever, caused by his wounds, that he had practically lost all interest in the outside world.

Having taken a hearty leave of their Indian hosts, the Russian detachment advanced further into the hilly country, and at noon spies reported to Prince Tchajawadse that the English had completely evacuated Ambala and had set out on the march to Delhi. Probably the strength of the Russian division, whose advance had been reported, had been greatly exaggerated at Ambala, and the English had preferred to avoid a probably hopeless engagement.

With a woman’s cleverness, Edith managed, without attracting observation, to keep near Heideck, so that they often had the opportunity of conversing. Her tender, fair skin must have appeared striking amongst all the brown faces, but the will and caprice of Russian officers demanded respect, and so no one appeared to know that there was an English lady in the troop wearing the costume of a rajah. Besides, the march was not a long one. The hunting-camp was only about 150 miles from Simla, situated below Kalka. On the next morning the column arrived before Simla and found that Jutogh, the high-lying British cantonment to the west of the far-extended hill city, had been evacuated.

Prince Tchajawadse quartered his infantry and artillery in the English barracks, and marched with the horsemen into the crescent-shaped bazaar, the town proper, surrounded by numerous villas, scattered over the hills and in the midst of pleasure-gardens. He at once sent off patrols of officers to the town hall, the offices of the Government and Commander-in-Chief, while he himself made his way to Government House, a beautiful palace on Observatory Hill.

Although it was spring, Simla still lay in its winter sleep. It had been deserted by the lively, brilliant society which, when the intolerable, moist heat of summer drove the Viceroy from Calcutta, enlivened the magnificent valleys and heights with its horses and carriages, its games, parties, and elegant dresses. Only the resident population, and the servants who had been left to look after the buildings and keep them in good order, remained, English Society being kept away by the war.

The hills were about a mile and three-quarters above the level of the Indian Ocean, and frequent showers of rain made the climate so raw that Heideck rode with his cloak on, and Edith flung a dragoon’s long cloak over her shoulders to protect herself against the cold.

The officers were commissioned to search the Government buildings for important legal documents and papers, which the English Government might have left behind in Simla, and which were of importance to the Russian Government.

Heideck had to examine the seven handsome blocks of Government offices, especially the buildings set apart for the Commander-in-Chief, the Quartermaster-General, the general railway management, and the post and telegraph offices.

He found none but subordinate officials anywhere until he came to the office of the Judge Advocate General. Here he found a dignified old gentleman, sitting so quietly in his armchair that Heideck was involuntarily reminded of Archimedes when the Roman soldiers surprised him at his calculations.

As the officer entered, accompanied by the soldiers, the old gentleman looked at them keenly out of his large, yellowish eyes. But he neither asked what they wanted, nor even attempted to prevent their entrance. Heideck bowed politely, and apologised for the intrusion necessitated by his duty. This courteous behaviour appeared to surprise the old gentleman, who returned his greeting, and said that there was nothing left for him but to submit to the orders of the conqueror.

“As there seems nothing to be found in these rooms but legal books and documents,” said Heideck, “I need not make any investigation, for we are simply concerned with military matters. I should be glad if I could meet any personal wishes of yours, for I do not think I am mistaken in assuming that I have the honour of speaking to a higher official, whom special reasons have obliged to remain in Simla.”

“As a matter of fact, my physicians were of opinion that it would be beneficial to my health to spend the winter in the mountains. You can imagine how greatly I regret that I took their advice—I am Judge-Advocate-General Kennedy.”

“Is your family also in Simla?” asked Heideck.

“My wife and daughter are here.”

“Sir, there is an English lady with our column, the widow of an officer who was killed at Lahore. Would you be disposed to let her join your family?”

“An English lady?”

“She is the victim of a series of adventurous experiences, as to which she can best inform you herself. Her name is Mrs. Irwin. Would you be disposed to grant her your protection? If so, I should certainly be the bearer of welcome news to her.”

“My protection?” repeated the old gentleman in surprise. “My family and I need protection ourselves, and how can we, in the present circumstances, undertake such a responsibility?”

“You and your family have nothing to fear from us, sir. On the contrary, we intend to maintain quietness and order.”

“Well, sir, your behaviour is that of a gentleman, and if the lady wishes to come to us we will offer no objection. Can I speak to her, that we may come to an understanding?”

“I will make haste and fetch her.”

In fact, he did not hesitate for a moment. As he expected, Edith was very grateful to him for his friendly proposition.

Mr. Kennedy was extremely astonished to see a young rajah enter the room, and did not seem quite agreeably impressed by the masquerade.

“Is this the lady of whom you spoke?” he asked in surprise. But his serious face visibly cleared when Edith said, in her sweet, gentle voice—

“A countrywoman, who owes her life to this gentleman here, and who has only escaped death and dishonour by the aid of this disguise.”

“Mrs. Irwin, if you decide to join Mrs. Kennedy,” said Heideck, “I will send your belongings to Mr. Kennedy’s house. I must now leave you for the present. I have other official duties to perform, but I will return later.”

“In any case I am glad to welcome my countrywoman,” protested the old gentleman. “You can see my house from the window here, and I beg you will call upon me when your duties are over.”

It was not till after sunset that Heideck called at Mr. Kennedy’s house. He stood for a moment at the garden-gate and saw the snow-clad heights glowing in the fire of the evening light. Long chains of blue hills rose higher and higher towards the north, till at last the highest range on the distant horizon, bristling with eternal glaciers, mounted towards the sky in wondrous brilliancy.

Mr. Kennedy lived in a very imposing villa. Heideck was received with such friendliness by the master of the house and the ladies that he recognised only too clearly that Edith must have spoken warmly in his favour. She must also certainly have told them that he was a German. She was dressed as a woman again, and had already won the hearts of all by her frankness. Mrs. Kennedy was a matron with fine, pleasant features, and evidently of high social standing. Her daughter, about the same age as Edith, appeared to have taken a great fancy to the visitor.

Heideck sat with the family by the fire, and all tried to forget that he wore the uniform of the enemy.

“I wish we could manage to leave India and get back to England,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “My husband wants to remain in Calcutta to perform his duties, but he cannot stand the climate. Besides, how could we get to Calcutta? Our only chance would be to obtain a Russian passport, enabling us to travel without interference.”

“My dearest Beatrice,” objected her husband. “I know that you, like myself, no longer care what happens to us, at a time when such misfortune has overtaken our country. Amidst the general misfortune, what matters our own fate?”

“I should think,” interposed Heideck politely, “that the individual, however deeply he feels the general misfortune, ought not to give way to despair, but should always be thinking of his family as in time of peace.”

“No!” cried Mr. Kennedy. “An Englishmen cannot understand this international wisdom. A German’s character is different; he can easily change his country, the Englishman cannot. But you must excuse me,” he continued, recollecting himself. “You wounded my national honour, and I forgot the situation in which we are. Of course, I had no intention of insulting you.”

“There is some truth in what you say,” replied Heideck, seriously, “but allow me to explain. Our German fatherland, in past centuries, was always the theatre of the battles of all the peoples of Europe. At that time few of the German princes were conscious of any German national feeling; they were the representatives of narrow-minded dynastic interests. Thus our German people grew up without the consciousness of a great and common fatherland. Our German self-consciousness is no older than Bismarck. But we have become large-hearted, generous-minded, by having had to submit to foreign peoples and customs. Our religious feeling and our patriotism are of wider scope than those of others. Hence, I believe that, now that we have been for a generation occupied with our material strength and are politically united, our universal culture summons us to undertake the further development of civilisation, which hitherto has been chiefly indebted to the French and English.”

The old gentleman did not answer at once. He sat immersed in thought, and a considerable time elapsed before he spoke.

“Anyone can keep raising the standpoint of his view of things. It is like ascending the mountains there. From each higher range the view becomes more comprehensive, while the details of the panorama gradually disappear. Naturally, to one looking down from so lofty a standpoint, all political interests shrivel up to insignificant nothings, and then patriotism no longer exists. But I think that we are first of all bound to work in the sphere in which we have once been placed. A man who neglects his wife and children in the desire to benefit the world by his ideas, neglects the narrowest sphere of his duties. But in that case the welfare of his own people, of his own state, must be for every man the highest objects of his efforts; then only, starting from his own nation, may his wishes have a higher aim. I cannot respect anyone who abandons the soil of patriotism in order to waste his time on visionary schemes in the domain of politics, to wax enthusiastic over universal peace and to call all men brothers.”

“And yet,” said Edith, “this is the doctrine of Christianity.”

“Of theoretical, not practical Christianity,” eagerly rejoined the Englishman. “I esteem the old Roman Cato, who took his life when he saw his country’s freedom disappearing, and England would never have grown great had not many of her sons been Catos.”

“Mr. Kennedy, you are proclaiming the old Greek idea of the state,” said Heideck. “But I do not believe that the old Greeks had such a conception of the state as modern professors assert, and as ancient Rome practically carried out. Professors are in the habit of quoting Plato, but Plato was too highly gifted not to understand that the state after all consists merely of men. Plato regarded the state not as an idol on whose altar the citizen was obliged to sacrifice himself, but as an educational institution. He says that really virtuous citizens could only be reared by an intelligently organised state, and for this reason he attached such importance to the state. A state is in its origin only the outer form, which the inner life of the nation has naturally created for itself, and this conception should not be upset. The state should educate the masses, in order that not only justice, but also external and internal prosperity may be realised. The Romans certainly do not appear to have made the rearing of capable citizens, in accordance with Plato’s idea, the aim of the state; they were modern, like the great Powers of to-day, whose aim it is to grow as rich and powerful as possible. We Germans also desire this, and that is why we are waging this war; but at the same time I assert that something higher dwells in the German national character—the idea of humanity. With us also our ideals are being destroyed, and therefore we are fighting for our ‘place under the sun,’ in order to protect and secure our ideals together with our national greatness.”

At this point a servant entered and announced dinner.

At table the conversation shifted from philosophy and politics to art. The ladies tried to cheer the old gentleman and banish his despair. Elizabeth talked of the concerts in Simla and Calcutta, mentioning the great technical difficulties which beset music in India, owing to the instruments being so soon injured by the climate. The moist air of the towns on the coast made the wood swell; the dry air of Central India, on the other hand, made it shrink, which was very injurious to pianos, but especially to violins and cellos. Pianos, with metal instead of wood inside, were made for the tropics; but they had a shrill tone and were equally affected by abrupt changes of temperature.

After dinner Elizabeth seated herself at the piano, and it did Heideck good to find that Edith had a pleasant and well-trained alto voice. She sang some melancholy English and Scotch songs.

“I have never sung since I left England,” she said, greatly moved.

Heideck had listened to the music with rapture. After the fearful scenes of recent times the melodies affected him so deeply that his eyes filled with tears. It was not only the music that affected him, but Edith’s soul, which spoke through it.

“What are you thinking of doing, Mr. Kennedy?” he asked the old gentleman. “Shall you remain in Simla and keep Mrs. Irwin with you?”

“I have thought it over,” he replied. “I shall not stay here. I shall go to Calcutta, if I can. It is my duty to be at my post there.”

“But how do you intend to travel? The railways still in existence have been seized for the exclusive use of the army. Remember that you would have to pass both armies, the Russian and the English. You would have to go from Kalka to Ambala, and thence to Delhi.”

“If I could get a passport, I could travel post to Delhi, where I should be with the English army. Can you get me a passport?”

“I will try. Possibly Prince Tchajawadse may be persuaded to let me have one. I will point out to him that you are civilian officials.”

. . . . . . .

Prince Tchajawadse most emphatically refused to make out the passport for Mr. Kennedy and his family.

“I am very sorry, my friend,” said he, “but it is simply impossible. The Judge-Advocate-General is a very high official; I cannot allow him to go to the English headquarters and give information as to what is going on here. The authorities would justly put a very bad construction upon such ill-timed amiability, and I should not like to obliterate the good impression which the success of the expedition to Simla has made upon my superiors by an unpardonable act of folly on my own part.”

Heideck saw that any attempt at persuasion would be useless in the face of the Prince’s determination. He therefore acquainted Mr. Kennedy with the failure of his efforts, at the same expressing his sincere regret.

“Then I shall try to return to England,” said the old gentleman, with a sigh. “Please ask the Prince if he has any objection to my making my way by the shortest road to Karachi? Perhaps he will let me have a passport for this route.”

Prince Tchajawadse was quite ready to accede to this request.

“The ladies and gentlemen can travel where they please in the rear of the Russian army, for all I care,” he declared. “There is not the least occasion for me to treat the worthy old gentleman as a prisoner.”

On the same day Heideck had a serious conversation with Edith about her immediate future. He inquired what her wishes and plans were, but she clung to him tenderly and whispered, “My only wish is to stay with you, my only plan is to make you happy.”

Kissing her tender lips, which could utter such entrancing words, he said, deeply moved: “Well, then, I propose that we travel together to Karachi. I am resolved to quit the Russian service and endeavour to return to Germany. But could you induce yourself to follow me to my country, the land of your present enemies?”

“My home is with you. Suppose that we were to make a home here in Simla, I should be ready, and only too glad to live here for the rest of my life. Take me to Germany or Siberia, and I will follow you—it is all the same to me, if only I am not obliged to leave you.”

For a moment Heideck was pained to think that she had no word of attachment for her country; but he had already learnt not to measure her by the standard of the other women whom he had hitherto met on his life’s journey, and it ill became him to reproach her for this want of patriotism.

“Mr. Kennedy has assured me that he is ready to take you under his protection during the journey,” said he. “I will speak to the Prince again to-day, and, as he has no right to detain me, it will be possible for me, as I confidently hope, to start with you for Karachi.”

“But I shall only accept the Kennedys’ offer if you go with us,” declared Edith in a tone of decision, which left no doubt as to her unshakable resolution.

As a matter of fact, Prince Tchajawadse put no difficulties in his way.

“I sincerely regret to lose you again so soon,” he declared, “but it is for you alone to decide whether you go or stay. It was arranged beforehand that you could leave the Russian service as soon as it became worth your while. Women are, after all, the controlling spirits of our lives.”

Of course the Prince had long since been aware that the Kennedys’ visitor was Edith Irwin, but this was the first time he had alluded to his German friend’s love affair.

As if he felt bound to defend himself against a humiliating reproach, Heideck hastened to reply.

“You misunderstand my motives. It is my duty as a soldier which summons me first of all. Hitherto I have had no prospect of getting a passage on an English steamer. But, in the company of Mr. Kennedy, and on his recommendation, I have hopes that it will not be refused me.”

“Pardon me. I never for a moment doubted your patriotic sense of duty, and I wish you from my heart a happy voyage home. Of course, notwithstanding the alliance of our nations, it is not the same to you, whether you fight in the ranks of the Russian or the German army. And if the prospect of travelling in such pleasant society has finally decided you, you have, in my opinion, no reason at all to be ashamed of it. Certainly, for my own part, I am convinced that it is better, for a soldier to make the female element play as subordinate a role as possible in his life. He ought to do like most of my countrymen, and get a wife who will not resent being thrashed, with or without cause. It may be that I am mistaken on this point, and I have been severely punished for it.”

His countenance had suddenly become very grave, and as he could only be alluding to his lost page, Heideck thought he might at last venture to ask a question as to the whereabouts of the Circassian.

But the Prince shook his head deprecatingly.

“Do not ask me about her. It is a painful story, which I do not care to mention, since it recalls one of the worst hours of my life. It is bad enough that we poor, weak creatures cannot atone for the mistakes of a moment.”

Then, as if desirous of summarily cutting short an inconvenient discussion, he returned to the original subject of conversation.

“From my point of view, for purely practical reasons I must regard it as a mistake that you should so soon give up your career in the Russian army, which has begun under the most favourable auspices. A brilliant career is open to capable men of your stamp amongst us, for there is more elbow-room in our army than in yours. But I know that it is useless to say anything further about it. One word more! You need not at once take off the uniform to which you do honour before you leave Simla. To-morrow I am returning to Lahore, and during the march I beg you will still remain at the head of your squadron. It will be safest for your English friends to travel with our column. At Lahore you can do as you please. Since the course of the campaign is in a south-easterly direction, the west is free, and you may possibly be able to travel by train for a considerable portion of the journey to Karachi.”

In this proposal Heideck recognised a fresh proof of the friendly disposition which the Prince had already so often shown towards him, and he was not slow to thank him most heartily.

The idea of being obliged to travel under the enemy’s protection was, of course, not a very pleasant one to Mr. Kennedy; but in the interests of the females who accompanied him he was bound to acquiesce in the arrangement, since there was really no better chance of reaching Karachi quickly and safely.

“You cannot imagine,” he said to Heideck, “how hard it is for me to leave India, so dearly purchased. I have devoted twenty years of my life to it, years of hard, unremitting toil. And now my work, like that of so many better men, is rendered useless at a single stroke.”

“You have spent two whole decades in India without a break?”

“Yes; I could not make up my mind to accompany my wife and daughter on their occasional visits to Europe for a few months’ relaxation. I was passionately fond of my work, and I can hardly get over the idea that all is lost. And it IS lost; I am under no illusion as to that. After the Russians have once set foot here, they will never give up the country again. Their rule will be more firmly established than ours, since they are at heart much closer to the Indians than we are.”

. . . . . . .

On the following day they set out.

Mr. Kennedy and the ladies rode in a mail-coach drawn by four Australian horses, which had been originally intended for driving to the Anandale races. He had brought with him his own English coachman, an English servant, and an English maid; he had paid off and discharged his numerous Indian servants before starting.

The march proceeded by way of Kalka, the last station on the railway to Simla, without any incidents, as far as Lahore. Here Prince Tchajawadse was informed that the Russian army had started on the previous day for Delhi, and that he was to follow as rapidly as possible with his detachment.

During the entry into the streets of Lahore, the sight of which awoke in him so many painful recollections, Heideck was suddenly roused from his reverie. Behind the pillars supporting the balcony of a house he thought he caught sight of the form of a woman, who followed with staring eyes the march of the glittering, rattling troop of horsemen with their clattering swords. Although her face was almost entirely hidden by a veil, he felt instinctively that she was no other than his own and Edith’s preserver—the page Georgi. He turned his horse and rode up to the house. But the vision disappeared as he drew near, as if the earth had swallowed it up. He accordingly was driven to assume that it was merely a delusion of his senses.

He took leave of Prince Tchajawadse with a heartiness corresponding to their previous relations. The Prince embraced him several times, and his eyes were moist as he again wished his comrade a prosperous journey and the laurels of a victorious warrior. Nor was Heideck ashamed of his emotion, when he clasped the Prince’s hand for the last time.

“If you see your page again, please give him my own and Mrs. Irwin’s farewell greeting.”

The Prince’s face clouded over.

“I would do it with all my heart, my friend, but I shall never see my page again. Let us speak of him no more. There are wounds of which a man cannot feel proud.”

With this they parted.

Heideck, who had resumed his civilian attire, slept at the hotel, and then took the place Mr. Kennedy offered him in his carriage. He had found out that the railway between Lahore and Mooltan from Montgomery Station was still available for travelling.

The English, with their peculiar tenacity, still continued the regular service in the parts of India that were not affected by the war. The enormous extent of the country confined the struggle between the two armies in some degree to a strictly limited area. In the west, the east, and the interior of India there were few traces of the conflict. Only the troop trains between Bombay and Calcutta revealed a state of war.

Since the retirement of the English army from Lahore, no more troops were to be seen on the western railway, and this section was again perfectly free for ordinary traffic.

Even the Indian population of this district showed no particular signs of excitement. Only the actual presence of the Russian troops had disturbed the patient and peaceful people. The travellers even passed through Chanidigot without any interruption of their occupations or meeting with any unexpected delay.

The weather was not too hot; the stormy season had begun, and travelling in the roomy, comfortable railway carriages would have been in other circumstances a real pleasure.

The travellers safely reached Karachi, the seaport town on the mouths of the Indus with its numerous tributaries, where Mr. Kennedy’s high position procured them admission to the select Sind Club, where the attendance and lodging were all that could be desired. The club was almost entirely deserted by its regular visitors, since, in addition to the officers, all officials who could be dispensed with had joined the army. But neither the Kennedys nor Edith and Heideck had any taste for interesting society. Their only wish was to leave the country as soon as possible, and to see the end of the present painful condition of affairs. As the result of inquiries at the shipping agency, they had decided to travel to Bombay by one of the steamers of the British India Company, and to proceed thence to Europe by the Caledonia, the best vessel belonging to the P. and O. line.

In the afternoon, before going on board, Heideck hired a comfortable little one-horsed carriage and drove to Napier mole, where an elegant sailing-boat, manned by four lascars, was placed at their disposal at the Sind Club boathouse. They sailed through the harbour protected by three powerful forts, past Manora Point, the furthest extremity of the fortified mole, into the Arabian Sea.

“Really, it is hard to leave this wonderful land,” said Heideck seriously. “It is hard to take leave for ever of this brilliant sun, this glittering sea, and these mighty works of men’s hands, which have introduced luxury and the comforts of a refined civilisation into a natural paradise. I have never understood Mr. Kennedy’s sorrow better than at this moment. And I can sympathise with the feeling of bitterness which makes him shut himself up in his room, to avoid the further sight of all this enchanting and splendid magnificence.”

Edith, clinging to his arm and looking up fondly into his face only answered, “I only see the world as it is reflected in your eyes. And there its beauty is always the same to me.”