That man would be a fool who pretended to misunderstand her. She would have said more, but words failed. Her labored breath betrayed her, and the light that kindles only in a woman’s eyes leaped out at him. He seemed to be wandering in a maze with a siren as guide. What magic spell surrounded him? Why had the arrival of Jahangir’s messenger forced this tacit avowal from the lips of the proudest woman in India?

If she defied the Emperor and continued the journey to BurdwÁn, it must be as the promised wife of Walter Mowbray, an alien in race, and one who professed a hostile faith. Never was stranger compact dreamed of. They knew little of each other, beyond the acquaintance arising from an enforced companionship of five days. They scarce had a thought in common. They were bred and reared under social conditions as wide asunder as the poles. Nature, indeed, careless of arbitrary restrictions, had fashioned them in superb comparison, for never were man and woman better mated physically than these two. But the law which parts the East from the West divided them, and, although Nur Mahal would have scorned the unseen barrier, Mowbray drew back. Assuredly, there is no knowing what his answer would have been had not another face risen before his entranced vision, and a despairing voice cried bitterly in his ears: “Oh, Ann, they have taken him!”

Yes, though far from Spanish halberds and London Tower, here was lifelong bondage chaining him with a glamour more enduring than fetters of iron. It says much for the charms of Eleanor Roe that the memory of her anguish when last their eyes met on the Thames-side quay rescued her lover now from the imminent embrace of a most potent rival.

It was no time for measured phrase. His heart rose in pity as he took Nur Mahal in his arms for an instant.

“Sweet lady,” he said, “were I not pledged to one whom I hold dear as my very soul I would abide with you in BurdwÁn, and my sword should defend you while my hand could use it. But no man can gainsay his fate. He can only keep his conscience clean and leave the rest to God. I came to India hoping to earn a fortune wherewith I could return to my own land and claim my love. I have failed, yet my purpose will endure until I succeed or die.”

He felt the shrinking form he held shake with a sob, and he would have striven to comfort her with some faltering prediction of future happiness had she not raised her beautiful face in wild appeal.

“I have not humbled myself in vain,” she fiercely cried. “You must not deem me unworthy because I have departed from the path ordained for my sex. I am no timid maid who nurses her woes in secret. It may be that I am incapable of feeling that which other women call love. Never was man more deserving of true and faithful wife than Sher AfghÁn. Yet I hated him. You are one whom I could trust and honor. Had the fates willed it we should have gone far together. Now I yield to my destiny. Go! It is ended. If I never see your face again, at least think well of me, and strive to forget that, in a moment of folly, I sacrificed my self-respect for your sake.”

And now she struggled to free herself, but, because of his true regard for her, he would not suffer her to leave him in such self-condemning mood.

“Nay, fair lady,” he murmured, “we do not part thus. I have misjudged you in the past; be it mine now to make amends. You were wedded against your will, yet who shall hold you guilty of your husband’s death? Be assured that none in all this land shall shield your high repute as I and my honest comrade, Sainton. Lead us to your State, and if Sher AfghÁn’s followers prove faithful to his widow’s cause, Jahangir may wreck his throne in seeking to injure you.”

Again she lifted her wondrous face to his, and tears were glistening in her eyes. Yet, in the dim light of the open field he fancied he saw a piteous smile dimple her cheeks.

“Spare me your vows,” she said. “Keep them for her whose love is so strong that it binds you beyond the seas. And now, let us return.”

She looked up at him so wistfully that he yielded to impulse and kissed her. Perchance her heart fluttered with the thought that she had won, after all. But Mowbray was adamant in his faith, and his was the kiss of pity, not of passion.

“I shall never know peace again,” he cried, “until you are well content that I am pledged to another, and even wish her well of a poor bargain.”

“Then you are doomed to a life of misery, for that shall never be,” she retorted.

“Say not so, Princess. Your name alone was chosen with wondrous wisdom. It marks out one who has but to seek a throne to obtain it.”

“Ah, is that your secret thought? Strange, indeed that it should pair with mine!”

She wrenched herself free from his embrace, and ran a little way back through the millet. Then she stopped, and there was the wonted imperious ring in her voice as she cried:—

“A moment ago you undertook to defend me from my enemies. Swear, then, that you will obey my wishes!”

“In all things which concern your welfare—”

“Fear not, Mowbray-sahib. I offer myself twice to no man.”

Her quick transition from melting femininity to stern dominance surprised him as greatly as aught that had gone before. It relieved him, too. Who could deny the truth of Nur Mahal’s estimate of herself, that she was not like unto other women?

“I swear!” he said, wondering what new madness possessed her.

“’Tis well,” she answered. “I shall soon put your fealty to the test.”

Without another word, she passed to the road, where Sainton’s giant figure towered among the group of men and horses. Her quick eyes discovered Jahangir’s messenger, and she addressed him as if he were a servant of lowest rank.

“Ibrahim!” she cried, “did thy master, the Emperor, give thee thy charge in writing?”

The Chief Eunuch bowed obsequiously.

“Knowing your repute for exceeding discernment,” he said, “I even asked the Emperor of the World[J] to honor me with his written command. I carry it with me.”

“Follow me to the village. There we can procure a light.”

Whatever purpose she had in mind she gave no sign of her intent until she had perused the script which Ibrahim handed to her. Mowbray, watching her mobile features as she broke the seal of the Emperor’s parchment, whilst one of her women held a lantern, saw only an expression of fixed resolve, her set lips and thoughtful eyes revealing a determination to carry out in the best way the course upon which she had already decided.

She read Jahangir’s letter twice before she spoke, and, even then, there was an odd restraint in her manner when she addressed Mowbray and Sainton, who, with the Chief Eunuch, had accompanied her in silence.

“Jahangir told his envoy the chief part of that which he has written. Ibrahim’s message is exact in so far as it touches your affairs. I will fulfil the Emperor’s behests in all save one slight matter. You must not return to Agra. The Ganges lies a short march ahead, and, now that I have Jahangir’s written promise to pay you, there is no reason why I should not discharge his obligations.”

“I have brought no great store of money,” put in Ibrahim nervously.

“Said I aught to thee?” she blazed out at him. “It will be thy turn to speak when the Emperor demands a witness.”

“Do you revert to a proposal which we have once refused?” asked Walter, with Saxon doggedness frowning in his face.

“I revert to your promise given me quarter of an hour ago.”

“I swore to obey you, but—”

“Obey then, without question. Since you force me to it, I command you to accept my jewels in payment of the Emperor’s debt. A lakh and a half, is it not? If you are not cheated, they are worth as much. Further, I advise you to retain a score of my men until you reach Calcutta. They will follow you, I doubt not, but, to make certain of their allegiance, I shall promise them a good reward if they return bearing me a letter from you. They cannot deceive me, as I shall have your signature on the receipt for the money.”

“In truth, Princess, ’tis easy to see that you are the daughter of the High Treasurer,” broke in Roger suddenly. Nur Mahal’s tense expression relaxed for an instant; nevertheless, Walter, vexed that he should be forced into a settlement exceedingly repulsive to his feelings, asked gloomily:—

“What other of the Emperor’s requests do you carry out?”

“I go back to the Garden of Heart’s Delight. You spoke just now of fortunate names. Is it not happily entitled?”

The quiet scorn of the question revealed to him an utter hopelessness which was so greatly at variance with her confident mien during their flight that not even the scene which took place in the field of millet served to explain it wholly to his puzzled brain. In the presence of the rabbit-eared Chief Eunuch it was not advisable to say too much, but he could not forbear a comment.

“I have heard you describe a woman’s mind as a lake,” he said. “Will you forgive me if I liken it to a whirlpool, in which thoughts flowing in one direction at one moment, fly in the opposite way the next.”

She laughed lightly, though the joy had gone from her mirth.

“You still would have me go to BurdwÁn?” she cried.

“Yes; and I care not who hears.”

“Nor do I, for the Emperor bids me return, and I am dutiful. Who could deny the wish of so benignant a prince?”

“BurdwÁn without a husband is not to your liking, perchance. It would be dry meat, anyhow, as the fellow said after coursing a hare and losing it,” said Roger, who, for a cause best known to himself, attempted to deprive the undercurrent of their speech of its vinegar.

“Spare us such ill-timed jokes,” growled Mowbray angrily in English, but Roger only answered:—

“Gad! if the quip run not with thy humor, leg it after the hare again.”

Walter realized that his level-headed comrade appreciated the situation sanely, and was, indeed, advising him how to act. Yet he was torn by a thousand conflicting emotions. That field of millet had been to him a bed of nettles. He was still smarting from the sting of recollection. If Nur Mahal offered herself twice to no man, assuredly she was a woman whom few men would refuse at the first asking. And to what purpose had he thrust her away? For all he knew to the contrary, Nellie Roe might be married these two years. He had conversed with that sprightly maid during half a day. He had kissed her once. He had seen her fall fainting into the arms of Anna Cave, as any girl might have done who witnessed the arrest of a young cavalier for whom she felt a passing regard and whose ill fortunes were incurred in her behalf. Frail bonds, these, to hold in leash a warm-blooded youth!

His adventurous soul spurred him on to follow the career which Nur Mahal offered him. In those days, when the world was young, a stout heart and a ready sword were a man’s chief credentials. In no land did they lead to the Paradise of happy chance more readily than in India, where the golden fruit of the pagoda tree was ever ripe for him who dared to shake a laden branch. And yet, and yet—a lover’s kiss in an English garden withheld him from the glamour of it all.

It was fortunate, perhaps, in that hour of fiercest temptation, that Nur Mahal was too proud to stoop again to conquer. There were not wanting signs to her quick intelligence that Mowbray was fighting with beasts at Ephesus. Yet she disdained, by word or look, to join the contest, and it may be that her Eastern brain conceived a more subtle way of achieving her object. She brought forth the little box of cedar wood and handed it to Walter.

“Take heed, Ibrahim,” she said, “that I have given the sahiba diamonds to the value of a lakh and a half. You shall prepare a full quittance for the Emperor, and Mowbray-sahib shall sign it. Be speedy!”

She gave Walter a quick look from those wonderful eyes of hers.

“Whilst Ibrahim inscribes the receipt,” she continued, “you should choose your attendants.”

“At this hour?”

“Why not? When an Emperor is urgent the night becomes day. I begin the march back to Agra forthwith.”

Even the wearied Chief Eunuch would have protested, but she did not deign to heed his stammering words. It took Ibrahim some time to write all Jahangir’s titles on the parchment which set forth Nur Mahal’s settlement of Akbar’s debt. When the last flourish was drawn, and Mowbray had appended his name to the script, with Roger’s cross as agreeing to the same, the masterful lady herself was equipped for the road.

She sought no private leave-taking of the man whom, an hour earlier, she was willing to espouse. Before them all, she curtsied most gracefully to the two Englishmen.

“Farewell, sahiba,” she said. “May Allah prosper you!”

And with that she was gone. Ere they were fully resolved that this was, indeed, the end, they heard the hoof-beats of her retreating cavalcade. Soon they knew, from the distant commotion, that the Emperor’s troopers were withdrawing to their last camping-place.

Mowbray, a prey to thoughts which he could ill control, stood with Sainton a little apart from the cluster of mud huts adjoining their bivouac. Roger, sympathizing with the stress of his comrade’s reflections, gazed at the stars and softly whistled a few bars of an air popular in the North:

But Jai Singh, who had elected to go with them to Calcutta, did not scruple to break in on his new master’s reverie. To him, no matter what the comedy played by his mistress, one woman more or less in the world was of little import.

“Do we, too, march to-night, sahib?” he asked, when he discovered Mowbray on the outskirts of the hamlet.

“No,” was the curt reply.

“Then, sahib, if Khuda permits it, let us sleep. Three times in one month have we passed restless nights in this accursed village.”

“Ha! Why are these poor dwellings more hateful than any others passed on the road?”

“I know not, sahib, unless it be a meeting-place of evil spirits. When the Maharani came this way to BurdwÁn she wept all night and refused to be comforted. When she returned she wept again, for it was here we rested after regaining the great road. To-night, when I saw her smiling whilst she conversed with your Lordships, I thought the spell was broken. Yet, by the beard of MÀnu, now she is gone—and for what?—to indulge the fancy of a king who murdered that good man, Sher AfghÁn.”

“It may be that the local fiends are unfriendly to her and not to thee, Jai Singh. Sleep in peace. We march betimes in the morning.”

He knew full well that ambition was the sprite which plagued Nur Mahal. It had tortured many before her, nor would it cease to vex mankind long after her restless soul was stilled eternally.

“In truth,” said Roger, as they walked slowly after Jai Singh, “I am resolved now that your lucky star shines over these hovels, lad. Had you tried to shoe yon filly she would have requited you by kicking you into the smithy fire.”

“My soul, that would be the proper lot of an indifferent smith,” said Mowbray, with a queer bitterness in his voice, for weak human nature is so made up of contradictions that he missed Nur Mahal sorely now that he had seen the last of her.

“Ecod, if that is your way of thinking, why didn’t you give her a hearty hug when she led you forth into the field of chick-peas? Women will oft yield to a squeeze when they cry ‘Pshaw’ to a sigh. My mother told me—”

“I pray to the saints, if ever we see England again, thy mother may tell thee when to hold thy tongue,” cried Walter wrathfully, whereat Roger whistled another bar of “Elsie Marley,” and winked portentously at a gnarled and wizened village head-man, who cowered in his blanket close to their fire. The old fellow wondered dully what all these comings and goings of great folk betokened, but the giant’s humor pleased him greatly. It was propitious to be thus noticed by a lord of the earth.

Thenceforth, their days and nights provided an uneventful record of quiet travel. They reached Allahabad next day, and the local Kotwal was minded to give them some trouble. He was cowed instantly when Walter exhibited Akbar’s order to the Treasurer, which he had forgotten to hand to Ibrahim with the receipt. Nevertheless, being now well versed in the ways of Indian officials, he marveled at the man’s hectoring manners, since this city, situated at the confluence of the Ganges and the Jumna, was one of the chief resting-places for merchants passing between the Mogul capital and the Hughli delta. Even at that date the Bay of Bengal was becoming noted as the site of important trading stations. It was passing strange that the civil head of Allahabad should be so impolitic.

No restrictions were placed on his movements, however, and the incident scarce demanded further thought. Indeed, the Kotwal deigned to help him by ordering his men to belabor the curious crowds which hampered progress through the bazaar, for the fame of Sainton’s stature spread like wild-fire, and numbers of mild-eyed Hindus came to gaze at him.

Here, they were able to test the value of Nur Mahal’s gift. Deeming it wise to replenish their small stock of ready money, eked out as it was by a sum which she had entrusted to Jai Singh for the expenses of the escort, they sold four small diamonds in the bazaar. The gems brought a thousand rupees, after some bargaining, so it was evident, even to non-experts, that the two hundred stones in the little cedar cabinet, some being very large and pure, must be worth even more than the price estimated.

With the money thus obtained they purchased three roomy, flat-bottomed boats, spacious enough to house the whole party, man and horse. Assured that there would be no difficulty in securing food and fodder on the long river voyage they did not burthen their craft with a bulk of stores. Nevertheless, their preparations, though simple, consumed several days, for, to the native of India, Kal (to-morrow) is as precious a word as MaÑana to the Spaniard.

At last, after a weary delay, towards which Mowbray strongly suspected the Kotwal contributed indirectly, the huge, osier-woven sails of their buggalows were hoisted, and the unwieldy caravels lumbered slowly down stream. Owing to the ever-changing channel, the numerous sand-banks, the occasional barriers of half sunken trees and other dÉbris, they could only move during the hours of daylight. At night they tied up near some village, where young goats, eggs, poultry, milk, and grain were obtainable. At times, the people were so poor that even these primary commodities ran short, but, on the whole, they fared well. A week’s quiet voyaging did wonders for their horses. The hardy country-breds became sleek and fat. When taken ashore for exercise they would plunge and caper for sheer liveliness. One evening, after they had passed Benares, some such ebullition on the part of the powerful stallion which carried Sainton during the march from Agra caused his master to growl:—

“It seems a daft thing to me, Walter, to ferry these ill-mannered brutes so far. They are in good condition now. Why not sell them at the next big town, and let Jai Singh purchase others for his return up country?”

“I have been thinking of that same plan,” agreed his friend. “Let us consult Jai Singh, and hear what he says.”

But the shrewd old Rajput opposed the suggestion. He pleaded that no such cattle could be bought in Lower Bengal, and that they themselves would be glad of good mounts when they quitted the river to ride into Calcutta. The argument prevailed, though his real intent was to sell the animals as soon as their backs were turned and procure wretched tats for himself and his comrades, thereby netting a very handsome profit.

In life, it is ever the trivial things that count. A straw would have swayed them to barter the horses at Dinapore. Had they done so this history would have changed its course.

It was their custom to pass through populous places without stopping. Seen from the banks, they attracted little attention, which suited their purpose better than to leave behind them a trial of surmise and gossip. The dull villagers they encountered had no ideas beyond the state of the crops and the prospect of an early monsoon. Hence, they slipped quietly, if slowly, over a very long stretch of their journey to the sea without any important event breaking the monotony of peaceful nights and restful days.

The pranks which fortune had played them in the past might have warned them that this idyllic existence could not continue. But the fickle jade gave them no portent. Little did they realize that stern times were come again when one evening, whilst strolling ashore on a high bank and idly watching the Rajputs watering the horses, a man, black as a negro, but dressed in semi-European costume, suddenly appeared from a clump of trees crowning the promontory carved from the land by a bend of the stream at that point.

Half running, half staggering, he made towards them. As he came nearer, they perceived that he was in desperate plight. His garments were blood-stained; his gait and aspect told of abject fear; his eyes glistened like those of a hunted fawn; and, sinister token, his hands were weighted with heavy gyves of a fashion usually intended for the legs of prisoners.

“Gad!” cried Roger, staring at the apparition, “this chuck minds me of that image of Satan who greeted us on board Sir Thomas Roe’s ship. Yet, an he be the devil himself, some one hath bound him!”

The poor wretch reached them, fell panting at their feet, and gasped in Portuguese:—

“Save me! Save me, for the love of God, if ye are Christians!”

Their long voyage with Captain Garcia had taught them sufficient of the lingua franca of the high seas at that period to understand his frantic appeal. Walter stooped and patted his shoulder encouragingly. He found it hard to arrange a sentence in the man’s language, but he managed to say:—

“Have no fear. We are English.”

Then it occurred to him that one who wandered in such fashion through the wilds of India must surely know Hindustani, so he continued:—

“There are none here to harm you. Why are you chained? Of whom are you so afraid?”

The man, a Portuguese half-caste, who, like many of his class, more resembled an African than an Indian, save in respect to his smooth, blue-black hair, seemed to be too dazed to do other than pour out trembling demands for succor. Roger, thinking deeds served better than words, to reassure him, lifted the heavy links which connected the fetters on his wrists.

“Mayhap,” he said, “if thy hands are freed thy tongue may loosen itself.”

With that, he tore apart the rivets binding the chain to the bracelets. Two mighty tugs, and the chain lay on the ground. But this exhibition of strength merely stupefied the captive. Surprise made him dumb. It was not until they led him to the boats and gave him some food, which he ate ravenously, that they were able to extract an intelligible story from him.

With many a vow to the Mother of Mercy and all the chief saints in the calendar, the fugitive, a youth of twenty, who said his name was Antonio da Silva, told them how Abdul Aziz, a fanatical Musalman of high position in Bengal, had treacherously attacked the Portuguese colony at Hughli. There was a fight, in which many were killed, but the multitude of assailants, no less than the wholly unexpected nature of the assault, sufficed to carry the town by storm. After looting the stores, Abdul Aziz paraded the survivors, offered degrading terms to those of both sexes who would become Mahomedans, and, when only three men and one woman yielded, out of some two hundred prisoners, despatched the whole company, strongly guarded, to the northern capital.

Hearing this story, which so curiously bore out the accuracy of Nur Mahal’s information, the two Englishmen looked at each other.

“Now we know why she bade us take the river,” said Roger. “Had we gone by road we had encountered these unfortunates.”

“We are much beholden to her,” said Mowbray. “But how and when did you contrive to escape?” he went on, filling Antonio’s empty plate again.

“Yesterday, at the close of a weary march—”

“Yesterday! Is the convoy so close, then?”

Da Silva pointed to the west.

“The party is not more than five miles distant over there,” he said. “It chanced last night that there was some confusion owing to the advance guard having gone beyond the agreed camping-ground. We prisoners were hurried back in the dark. Passing through a wood, and scarce able to walk owing to fatigue and the weight of my fetters, I stumbled over a rock and fell into a hollow. I lay there, expecting to be roused with a lance-thrust, but careless what fate awaited me. Mater Misericordia! the black dogs heeded me not. When I discovered that I had not been missed, hope gave me new strength. I rose, and went rapidly along the road in front, thinking that search would not be made far in that direction, whereas any attempt to reach the south road would lead to my capture. At dawn, utterly spent though I was, I turned into the cultivated land, knowing that in time I should gain the river’s bank. I kept on until the presence of villagers caused me to hide in the tope of trees whence I first saw you. I dared not reveal myself to the natives, because they would conduct me back to the column, being fearful lest the soldiers should pillage them for concealing me. So I lay close all day, without so much as a drink of water, until the good God sent your lordships towards my hiding-place. Then I felt that I was safe.”

There was a spice of humor in the tragedy of his story. He called Indian Mahomedans “black,” and alluded to the inhabitants of Upper Bengal as “natives” with all the assurance of the whitest white who ever entered the country. But the Englishmen were more concerned in the character of his news than in his way of imparting it. While such a gang as the swashbucklers of Abdul Aziz infested the neighborhood, it behooved them to keep watch and ward until the marauders were far removed. Moreover, the magnitude of the affair was alarming. If the Hughli district were overrun, the other stations at Calcutta and lower down the river would be difficult of access. Da Silva, in reply to further questions, said that the sacking of the Portuguese colony took place nearly a month since, so Jahangir must have despatched his murderous order soon after he came to the throne. Were his couriers carrying a similar mandate to the west coast? Would the Christian posts at Surat, Ahmedabad and Bombay also be given to the flames?

Certainly, here was a dilemma. Yet their only course, precarious though it might be, was to guard against sudden attack, keep to the river, and endeavor at all hazards to reach the sea.

Ere night fell, Jai Singh and a sowar made an extensive reconnaissance on horseback beyond the perimeter of the village. They returned, to report that many fires were lit in the locality described by the half-caste.

By this time, da Silva’s confidence was somewhat restored, and he bethought himself of the miserable lot of his fellow captives.

“Ah!” he sighed, “what would I not give to help them. Think of that gracious lady, the Countess di Cabota, being subjected to such indignities! Though she looks young enough, she is very stout, and she suffers greatly from the vagaries of the mule on which she is strapped. And then, the good priests! I can see them now, patiently enduring contumely and insult, and answering each blow with a prayer.”

“A Countess!” said Mowbray. “How came a lady of rank to be in an Indian station?”

“They say she was jealous of her husband, who was a very handsome man, and when he was named Governor of the Portuguese possessions in the East Indies she insisted on coming with him. But he died of a fever, and she was about to go home when the attack took place.”

“Are there many women among the prisoners?”

“About forty, your lordship, but some are converts. Perhaps twenty, all told, are Europeans like myself.”

Walter repressed the temptation to laugh.

“It is a grave matter,” he said, “and Portugal should avenge it heavily. While the names are fresh in your mind tell me all you can remember. I shall set them down for the information of the first Portuguese official I encounter.”

The roll progressed until da Silva reached the ecclesiastics.

“First, let me think of the Franciscans. Who, that knew him, would not weep for good Fra Pietro!”

“Fra Pietro!”

There was many a “Brother Peter” in the Franciscan order, yet the words smote Mowbray’s ears with a sudden menace of disaster.

“Tell me of this Fra Pietro,” he said. “What manner of man is he?”

Da Silva, glib of tongue now, told of a monk who was sent to India nearly three years ago. It was rumored that he had been guilty of a breach of discipline, or had, in some manner, displeased the authorities at Lisbon, though what his error none knew, since there never was saint who walked the earth more humble and devout than Fra Pietro. Yes, Antonio was sure the excellent father spoke English, because he conversed, in their own language, with the sailors on board an English ship which once came up the Hughli river. Surely his lordship must have met Fra Pietro, seeing that he described the friar so accurately. He was, indeed, very thin and pallid, with large brown eyes that seemed to be ever contemplating the happiness of heaven!

Then Walter set aside his tablets and hastened to find Sainton, who was eating an extra heavy supper on the set principle that a good deal might happen ere breakfast.

“Roger,” he said, quietly, unconscious in his perplexity of the pain in his voice, “here is ill news.”

“Why, what ails thee, lad?” demanded the giant, suspending his assault on the haunch of a deer, though, to be sure, he had his mouth full.

“You remember Fra Pietro, who saved us from the Inquisition?”

“Remember him!” cried Roger. “I shall forget my own name first.”

Mowbray pointed to the dying light on the western horizon. Against the golden purple of the sky was silhouetted the indigo line of the great central plain of India.

“He is among those unhappy people,” he said. “Unless I err greatly he is there because he helped us to escape. Perchance he was banished because they feared to put him to death. Roger, what say you?”

“Say! What is there to say! Sit thee down, lad, and eat while we think. We mun have him out, whole and hearty, though every cut-throat between here and hell barred the way.”