When Mrs. Antonio pronounced Rassih to be "a very hot place," her words at the time had conveyed little to Stella of what to expect. The heat grew fiercer than she could have believed possible; the blazing sun, the scorching wind, the nights that seemed equally long and hot as the days, without variation of temperature save for the worse. There was no escape, no deliverance, and the rains tarried. Despite her youth and her health, she flagged, lost her appetite, lived chiefly on tea and iced mango-fool, with all the short-sightedness of the young in matters of nourishment. Robert, on the contrary, appeared to thrive. He ate well, slept soundly, rode and played tennis as usual. His very vigour was exhausting to his wife.

Now the only ladies left in the station besides herself were Mrs. Beard and Mrs. Antonio. Martha and Mary and Deborah were dispatched (at the mission expense) to cooler climes; Pussy Antonio was on a long visit "up hill" to relations; Mrs. Piggott had fled, like the rest, to the Himalayas. Therefore Mrs. Crayfield's "at homes" were for the present in abeyance, and had it not been for Philip Flint, the monotony of her days would have become well-nigh intolerable. Stella lived for the sight of his face and the sound of his voice. Whether she might have welcomed his society with equal delight had he been Mrs. or Miss Flint, possessing the same tastes and interests, had not occurred to her. One source of annoyance during his visits ceased suddenly—Champa and Sher Singh no longer peeped and peered from the doorways. On the other hand, Champa began to behave as if she recognised, and was ready to abet, an intrigue that must be kept from the Commissioner's knowledge. Early one morning she sidled into the bedroom with a note that had arrived from Mr. Flint for Mrs. Crayfield, hiding it beneath her wrapper, looking unutterable warnings, since the sahib was half awake. She handed it covertly to her mistress. In a flash Stella recognised what lay in the woman's mind, and she made haste to rouse Robert as she took the note and opened it.

"Mr. Flint has got fever," she told him; "he won't be able to play tennis this evening."

"Say salaam," she added severely to Champa, who retired, snubbed, to give the messenger the orthodox message of acknowledgment.

This episode worried Stella. She was not yet so conversant with Oriental outlook as to comprehend that to the native mind there could be but one interpretation of her intimacy with a sahib who was not her husband nor in any way related to her. She felt enraged, humiliated, by Champa's assumption that she must wish to conceal the note from Robert, and in consequence she passed a restless morning after a long, hot ride that drained her energy. It was the old munshi's day with his pupil; but when he presented himself with his pen-box and sheaf of yellow papers, she could not settle down to the lesson, was unable to fix her attention, and, pleading a headache, she dismissed him politely. Then she tried writing her weekly letter to The Chestnuts; but her hand clung damp to the paper, and she had not the strength of will to persevere; the keys of the piano stuck to her fingers; it was useless attempting to paint or to embroider. Finally she sat idle in the darkened room, permitting her thoughts to wander without aim, backwards and forwards in chaos, now in one direction, then in another, till they collided with the solid fact that her disturbance of mind was now not so much connected with Champa's insulting behaviour as with her disappointment that she was not to see Philip Flint that afternoon, a vexation aggravated by anxiety concerning his condition. Had he got all he needed? He was still in the Rest House, and she pictured him lying sick and helpless in the hot and hideous little building. Had he plenty of ice? She knew the supply was limited. She would have liked to order soup or jelly to be prepared for him, but the order would have to go through Sher Singh. The day wore on as usual. The heavy midday breakfast, Robert's rest afterwards, her own efforts to read while he slept. By tea-time her head ached definitely and badly. Robert suggested that another ride would do it good. She might like to try the grey stud-bred he had bought the other day, since her own mare had already been out in the morning.

"I can't ride again to-day," she declared fretfully. "I don't feel up to it. You had better try the grey yourself."

At once he became significantly solicitous, and the meaning in his questions and concern annoyed her still further.

"Oh, do go," she cried, exasperated at last, "and leave me alone. I want to be quiet. My head aches, that's all."

He grumbled a little that Flint should be ailing and therefore unavailable for tennis. He could not decide whether to try the grey or to send for one of the Public Works assistants to play with him. On inquiry it was ascertained that the young man in question was still out in the district; and finally, to his wife's relief, he ordered the grey to be saddled and set off for a solitary ride.

Stella repaired to the front balcony to see him mount and to wave him a friendly farewell in apology for her ill-humour. The grey was a satisfactory purchase, a handsome animal, well up to weight, but evidently hot-tempered, and gave trouble at the start. Certainly Santa-Sahib looked his best on a horse. He was a good rider, and for a moment Stella repented her peevish refusal to ride with him. Then erratically the question occurred to her: Supposing there was an accident, supposing Robert were killed, how would she feel?

It was as if she awaited an answer from beyond her own brain, and for answer there came to her the sudden vision of Philip Flint. He seemed to be standing before her. She saw his blue eyes, heard his slow, pleasant voice. What did it mean? Aghast at her thoughts, shadowy and indefinite though they were, she rushed back to the drawing-room, shaking, unstrung, with the feeling that she had committed murder in her heart. She was a wicked creature! Oh, why had she married Robert? Why had she not stayed at The Chestnuts with grandmamma and the aunts, ignorant, safe, however dull? Nothing but evil had come of her yearnings for India, and there was no one to whom she could turn for help, for advice, for sympathy.

In trembling haste, but without purpose, she put on a hat and went out into the compound. Involuntarily she glanced around for Sher Singh, but for a wonder he was nowhere to be seen, and impulsively she decided to call on Mrs. Antonio—anything to escape from the harassing fancies that beset her.

The house occupied by the Antonios was no distance, built as it was on a further portion of the fort walls; it stood prominent against the copper-coloured sky, encouraging the venture....

Mrs. Antonio was at home. As Stella sat in the drawing-room awaiting her appearance she noticed a curious smell; it recalled to her mind Mrs. Piggott's belief that the doctor, if not his wife as well, indulged in the hookah. And why not, queried Stella, if they liked it? though the taste was not easy to understand judging by the acrid odour! The room felt fusty, was crammed with a strange assortment of cheap bric-a-brac overlaid with dust, and the heat was insufferable.

When Mrs. Antonio appeared she presented what Stella's former school-fellows at Greystones would have described as "a sight for the blind," clad as she was in a terrible yellow dressing-gown, a bath towel bound turban-wise about her head.

"Please excuse, Mrs. Crayfield dear," she apologised. "I have been washing my hair. I did not wish to keep you waiting. Does your ayah prepare you areca-nut wash? It is best thing!"

"I will remember," said Stella, who had brought a bountiful supply of shampoo-powders with her from England. "Champa has not told me about it."

"Oh, my, that ayah of yours, that Champa! She is a lazy," continued Mrs. Antonio; she unwound the towel and rubbed her grey locks as she talked. "Where did you get her?"

"She was engaged by Sher Singh, our head servant."

"Yes, and that Sher Singh!" Mrs. Antonio peered at her visitor through a screen of wet hair. "He is a badmash."

There was no need for translation, Stella knew the word well enough—it meant rascal. "I detest Sher Singh," she admitted, finding comfort in the expression of her feelings, "and I know he hates me!"

"Of course, what else? So many years with Colonel Crayfield, and knowing too many secrets! He is jealous. Tell your husband let him go, give a pension. He is opium-eater, all say in the bazaar."

"An opium-eater?"

"Yes, but do not say to Colonel Crayfield that I hinted. You see you are so young, Mrs. Crayfield dear. That is why I warn. If he stays that man will do harm—make mischief."

Stella shrank from exposing her helplessness in the matter, felt ashamed also of her inclination to let things slide rather than provoke Robert's wrath. She said:

"Thank you for putting me on my guard, Mrs. Antonio. It is friendly and kind of you. Now will you tell me about the areca-nut wash for the hair? I am sure it must be excellent."

Mrs. Antonio followed the drag and plunged into directions, presented Mrs. Crayfield with a handful of the beneficial nut; then talked of Pussy's hair and other perfections until Stella made an opportunity for escape.

As she strolled home she felt further depressed. Her mind was full of Mrs. Antonio's warning; it served to strengthen her feeling of repugnance towards Sher Singh. She tried to argue with herself that there might be excellent reasons for Robert's attachment to Sher Singh apart from the value of the man's services; gratitude might be involved, possibly Sher Singh had nursed his master through a dangerous illness, or in some way saved Robert's life. Robert would never have told her; he was so secretive. He seldom spoke of the past, and she knew little or nothing of his former life. She had never induced him even to talk of his friendship with her father and mother. She hated the feeling that she was not in her husband's confidence, though she was guiltily alive to the truth that she did not exactly admit him to her own! Bother Sher Singh! He was a perpetual thorn in her flesh; she had never disliked the man more than when this evening she beheld him standing sentinel at the foot of the steep steps that led up to the dwelling rooms on the fort walls. There he stood pompous, important, clothed in immaculate white with a smart blue belt and Robert's crest fashioned in silver fastening a band to match the belt across his big turban. She longed to get even with him, and when he started almost imperceptibly at sight of her she felt a vindictive satisfaction that for once she had eluded his vigilance. Clearly he had been ignorant of her excursion, had believed her to be sitting solitary above during the Sahib's absence. He salaamed low with what seemed to her mocking humility as she passed him, and with equally mocking disdain she ignored the salutation; not pausing to observe the effect of her insult, she went on up the steps miserably conscious that she had made a mistake.

Mrs. Antonio's assertion that Sher Singh ate opium did not disturb her unduly. She remembered vaguely to have heard that all natives took opium to a certain extent, just as most Europeans took alcohol, in moderation. She knew nothing about it, and therefore Mrs. Antonio's caution not to mention the matter to her husband seemed to her sound. But once in her bedroom the rest of the warning swung through her brain: "If he stays that man will do harm—make mischief," and panic possessed her.

It was useless to assure herself that she was making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Beneath all her defensive reasoning lay a dread apprehension that she was powerless to control. It was all so intangible, so exasperating, this heavy-hearted sense of foreboding without actual foundation. Despairingly she sought refuge in making the worst of her headache; that, at least, was definite enough. She summoned Champa and prepared for bed, so that when Robert returned from his ride she might plead indisposition as an excuse for absenting herself from the dinner table.

Robert accepted the excuse in all good faith. He prescribed a dose of quinine and a glass of iced champagne, both of which she swallowed to please him, and when later he came to her room she lay still, with closed eyes, till he was safely asleep. Then she stole from her bed and went out on to the balcony. Yellow and parched the landscape lay before her, bathed in the strong Eastern moonlight, the little heaps of ruins in the foreground picked out with black shadows—relics of past power, dead echoes of ancient strife! On this spot where she stood, on the ramparts of the old Moghul fort, perhaps Emperors had stood also, unwitting of the future, of the coming downfall of their dynasty.

From Philip Flint she had learnt how the fort had been built by the great Akbar in the reign of his greater Western contemporary, Elizabeth; how it had lain with his descendants to uphold Moghul might and dominion, and how they had failed—failed before a power that was stronger in its spirit of self-sacrifice and honest purpose. 'Midst all her unease of mind she felt the magic and the marvel of the past; remembered George Thomas and his wide ambitions—a voice crying in the wilderness of turmoil and chaos and oppression of the helpless, a pioneer of the peace and protection to follow for this gorgeous old country. Yet was the present order and prosperity doomed to pass in its turn, leaving even less traces of its influence than just ruins and remains and reminders? Would India seethe again with tyranny, murder, persecution, general insecurity of property and person, creed up against creed, custom against custom, avarice stalking the land to block and destroy all progress? Flint, she knew, feared for India's future, owing to the Western system of education that was being pursued without forethought, without judicious provision for employment that would guard against disaster. Sooner or later, he had said, there would come into power a faction that for the sake of unpractical theories and so-called "ideals" totally unsuited to the East, would liberate forces, dangerous forces already at work beneath the surface for personal gain, that would seek to oppress and intimidate the masses, render just administration impossible, degrade British rule into a farce. And then? Well then it would devolve into a choice between the withdrawal of British authority, leaving the country open to conquest from some stronger foreign nation, or a reversion to sane government, and the drastic suppression of sedition, conspiracy, and rebellion.

In face of these reflections Stella's own troubles seemed to fade into space; she felt lifted above them, indifferent to petty considerations, to the jealousy of Sher Singh, Robert's propensities and the limitations he sought to impose upon her. Now boldly, and without scruple, she permitted her imagination to run riot. Supposing she were Philip Flint's wife—how she would strive to help and encourage him, how she would fling herself into his work and his aspirations, each of them doing their utmost, hand in hand, for the welfare of the country they both loved! Heart and brain afire she paced the broad balcony in a maze of fictitious delight; to-night there was little sound, no howling of beasts save in the far distance where jackals hunted in packs; and, near at hand, only the soft murmur of the city beyond the walls. Spellbound, as in a dream, she loitered; the heat was intense in the quiet, the desolation, the hard yellow light of the moon, but it seemed merely to caress her limbs, to encourage the intoxication of her fancies.

A sudden sound shattered the reverie; a dull thud as if something had fallen within the building from the roof to the foundations.... Again—this time it was less loud, less definite, rumbling away into silence. She listened, alert, her heart beating quickly; then came reassurance with the recollection of Mrs. Cuthell's conviction that strange echoes were caused by the occasional fall of masonry below in the underground ruins. Wrenched back to reality she returned to the darkened bedroom, once more a prey to restless depression. Robert lay sleeping profoundly, his deep, regular breathing, and the monotonous flap of the punkah frill, were the only sounds she could discern as she lay wide awake, her senses sharpened, her nerves overwrought. But just as a hint of drowsiness gave hope of repose for body and mind, again she heard something that this time could not be attributed to the falling of bricks or stones, since, of a certainty, it was within the room. A light patter on the matting, a pause, hesitation, a faint whimper....

In sheer terror Stella leapt from her bed; could it be a ghost—the spirit of a helpless little child massacred with other victims of the great tragedy in this hateful house? Only by the strongest effort she refrained from shrieking aloud as a soft touch fell on her ankle; it was the warm, wet lick of a tongue. She was thankful she had raised no disturbance when by the dim radiance of the moon through the open doorways she saw no ghost, no child, but only Jacob!—Jacob with a broken strip of cord hanging to his collar, apologetic, unhappy, squirming at her feet in his dumb, pathetic attempts to explain his desertion of his master.

Stella consoled the little dog, let him lie by her side on the bed. His company brought a sense of comfort and security. Philip's servants must have imprisoned Jacob in some out-house so that his well-meant attentions should not disturb the sick man. She hoped it argued healing sleep for Philip—did not mean that he was worse. Meanwhile she must await daylight to ascertain the truth.

At last she fell asleep, Jacob's nose cuddled in the crook of her elbow, regardless of Robert's indignation when he should awake and discover the presence of "that damned dog."