"Look at me, John. There is no turn and turn about with me. From the

beginning I have tricked and lied and fought my way through life. I

didn't care whom I hurt so long as I got through. I sinned. Who has

sinned against me?"

"One person at least," he answered significantly.

She caught her breath, and the hand that passed hastily across her

forehead trembled.

"Even if it were true what you say," she said, half inaudibly, "it

does not alter the fact that we must atone for what has been done."

"It is the justice of the world," he assented. "We must make good the

harm we do and the harm that has been done us." He threw back his

shoulders with a movement of energetic protest. "Do not let us waste

time talking. We can not help each other. All I ask is--do not forget

my message."

She looked at him, strangely moved.

"You talk as though you were going to die to-night," she said.

"I talk as a man does whom death has already tapped on the shoulder

more than once of late," he answered, with grim humor. "Good-by,

Beatrice."

"Good-by."

He pushed his writing-table to one side so that she could pass out on

to the verandah.

"Do not come with me farther," she said. "The carriage is waiting

outside. I would rather go alone."

He stood and watched her as she passed lightly and quickly among the

rose-bushes. It was as though he were trying to engrave upon his mind

the memory of a lovely picture that he was never to see again,--as

though he were bidding her a final farewell. Twice she turned and

glanced back at him. Was it with the same intent, guided by the same

strange foreboding? She disappeared, and the voice of a native

orderly who had entered the room unheard recalled him to the reality.

"A letter for you, Captain Sahib," the man said, saluting.

Stafford took the sealed envelope and, tearing it open, ran hastily

over the contents. It was from the Colonel. The subscription, as usual

since the rupture in their relations, was cold and formal.

"I should be glad to see you at once," Colonel Carmichael had written.

"Events occurred yesterday which I have not as yet been able to

discuss with you, but which I fear are likely to have the most serious

consequences. In the present weakened condition of our garrison, we

can afford to run no risks. Nicholson is with me here. Your presence

would simplify matters as regards forming our plans for the future."

Stafford turned to the waiting soldier.

"Present my compliments to the Colonel Sahib," he said. "I shall be

with him immediately."

CHAPTER IV

STAFFORD INTERVENES

The threatening cloud which had loomed up on the horizon had acted

wonders on Colonel Carmichael's constitution. At the last meeting of

the Marut Diamond Company he had looked like a man whose days on the

active service list were numbered. Ill-health, disappointment, and a

natural pessimism had apparently left an indelible trace upon him, and

Mrs. Carmichael's prophetic eye saw them both established in

Cheltenham or Bath, relegated to the Empire's lumber-room--unless

something happened. The something had happened. The one sound which

had the power to rouse him had broken like a clap of unheralded

thunder upon his ears. It was the call of danger, the war-note which

had brought back to him the springtime of his youth and strength.

Stafford found him restlessly pacing backward and forward in his

narrow workroom, deep in conversation with Nicholson, who stood at the

table, his head bent over a map of Marut. Both men were in uniform,

and it seemed to Stafford that Colonel Carmichael listened to the

click of his own spurs with the pleasure of a young lieutenant. It was

no longer the sound of weary routine. It was the herald of clashing

sabres and the champing of impatient horses awaiting the charge; it

was an echo of past warlike days which were to come again. He stood

still as Stafford entered, and a flash of satisfaction passed over his

face.

"I'm glad you have come," he said. "Whatever is to be done must be

done at once. I suppose you know nothing?"

"Nothing," Stafford answered. "Your note was the first intimation I

have received that there was anything amiss."

Colonel Carmichael grunted angrily.

"Of course you know nothing," he said, resuming his restless march

about the room. "Nor did I--nor did any one. Heaven and earth, I'm

beginning to think there's something wrong in our theory that whatever

is going on under our noses must be too insignificant to be noticed!

There, Nicholson, hurry up and tell him what you know."

Nicholson stood upright, and folding the map put it in his pocket.

"I was in the New Bazaar last night," he began curtly. "I go there

regularly, as you know, disguised as one thing or another, just for

the sake of having a look at the people when they don't know they are

being watched. Last night there was no one there--not so much as a

child or a woman. The place was dead. I admit that I was not

particularly startled. I knew that there was a great festival at hand.

Pilgrims have been streaming in for days past, and it was quite

conceivable that some ceremony was taking place in the temple.

Curiosity fortunately led me to investigate further. Myself disguised

as a traveling fakir, I made my way to the Rajah's palace gates.

Already on the road I was joined by a hurrying stream of men and

women, principally men. My suspicions were aroused. I knew from

experience that it was not a usual crowd of pilgrims. Every man was

armed, not only with knives, but guns and revolvers. Some of them were

undoubtedly deserted sepoys who had stolen their weapons. Moreover,

they exchanged a signal which I recognized and, in order to escape

detection, imitated. It was the signal which in past generations

revealed one member of the Thug fraternity to another."

"Thugs!" exclaimed Stafford, with a faintly skeptical smile.

"Do not misunderstand me," Nicholson said. "I am not going to recall

to your minds the nursery horrors with which our ayahs regaled our

childish imaginations. I will only emphasize one fact. The Thugs were

not and are not merely a band of murderous and treacherous robbers.

They belong to the priesthood, they are the deputed servants of the

goddess Kali, and their task is the extermination of the enemy--of the

foreigner, that is to say--in this case, of ourselves."

Stafford glanced at the Colonel. The latter's face was set and grave.

"I do not for a moment suggest that the crowd with which I traveled

were Thugs," Nicholson continued. "I know that they were not. But they

had adopted the Thug sign because they had adopted the Thug mission.

Not, however, till we had passed the gates and reached the palace did

I realize the gravity of the situation. The Rajah stood on the great

steps, surrounded by a body-guard of torch-bearers. He was dressed in

full native costume, a blaze of gems, and wearing the royal insignia.

The expression on his face was something I shall not easily forget,

and at the time it was inexplicable to me. I can not describe it. I

can only say that I was instantly reminded of Milton's fallen Satan as

he stands above his followers, superb, dauntless, but tortured by

hatred, contempt and God knows what strange minglings of remorse and

anger. He greeted the crowd with the sign of death. His first words

revealed to me that his allegiance to us was at an end, and that he

meant to follow in his father's bloody footsteps."

Stafford stretched out his hand, catching hold of the back of a chair

as if seeking support.

"Go on!" he said sharply.

"I have very little more to say. I did not wait, for I had heard

enough to know that Marut was in instant danger. I made my escape as

best I could, but in order to avoid notice I had to resort to

circuitous paths, and only reached here this morning."

Colonel Carmichael brought his hand down angrily upon the table.

"To think that the scoundrel should have been pretending friendship

all the time that he was preparing to murder us!" he exclaimed. "This

comes of trusting a native!"

"Excuse me, Colonel," Nicholson answered, with emphasis. "I have every

reason to believe that until yesterday Nehal Singh was our sincere

ally."

"You mean to say that he stamped an armed crowd out of the earth in

half an hour?"

"No. That armed crowd was the silent work of years. It was the tool

which has been held ready for a long time--but not by Nehal Singh--"

"By whom, then, in the name of all--"

Nicholson drew out an old and faded photograph and handed it to the

Colonel.

"Do you recognize that face?" he asked.

"Certainly I do. It is the Rajah's father--Behar Singh. How did you

come by this?"

"It belonged to my father. He gave it me, and I kept it as a

curiosity. Colonel, I saw that man last night at the Rajah's side."

The photograph fluttered from the Colonel's powerless fingers. He

looked at Nicholson, and there flashed into his old eyes a terrible

primitive passion of revenge and hatred.

"My God! He is alive--and I never knew!"

"He is alive, Colonel. And I believe that, hidden from us all, he has been

working steadily and stealthily at the task which saw its completion last

night. So long as Nehal Singh stood on our side he could do nothing. The

people believe Nehal to be an incarnation of Vishnu, and they will only

follow where he leads. Behar knew that--probably he himself had fostered

the idea. He guessed, probably, that one day Nehal Singh would turn from

us. He waited. Last night I saw a face of devilish triumph which told its

own tale. He had not waited in vain."

Colonel Carmichael turned to Stafford and held out his hand. For the

first time old friendship shone out of his eyes mingled with a fire of

thirsty revenge.

"You and I have a debt to pay before we die, Stafford," he said.

Stafford's hand touched his coldly and powerlessly.

"I have nothing against the Rajah," he said hoarsely. "I can not carry

out a revenge against the son--"

Colonel Carmichael interrupted him with a hard laugh.

"They are all of a piece," he said. "Say what you will, Nicholson,

Nehal Singh is a traitor. We were fools to trust him. We are always

fools when we do not treat a native as a dangerous animal. They murder

us for our silly, sentimental confidence."

Nicholson bent down and, picking up the photograph, replaced it in his

pocket.

"Do you think so, Colonel?" he said significantly. "From, my

experience I have learned that you can always trust a native. You can

treat him as your friend and equal so long as the inequality is there

and obvious to him. I mean, so long as in everything--in generosity,

in courage, and in honor--he realizes that you are his superior."

Colonel Carmichael's face darkened with anger.

"Do you mean, perhaps, that--that we are not all that?" he demanded.

"Surely not all of us. How many men think that any sort of conduct is

good enough to show a native? What did Behar Singh see of our honor?

He was our friend until an Englishman who had eaten and drunk his

hospitality repaid him by a dishonorable theft. What has Nehal Singh

seen of our superiority? In spite of his father's influence, he came

to us prejudiced in our favor. He saw heroes in us all, and he

trusted himself blindly in our hands. What has been the consequence?

Look at yesterday's scene, as you have described it to me, Colonel.

His best friend had proved himself a mean and treacherous swindler.

The woman whom as I judge he regarded as a saint--forgive me,

Stafford, I must be honest--no more than a heartless flirt, who had

led him on from one folly to another for the sake of a little

excitement--"

"Rubbish!" Colonel Carmichael burst out. "What are exceptions in a

whole race?"

"In a strange country no one is an exception, Colonel. One coward, one

thief, one drunkard is quite enough to cast the blackest slur upon the

whole nation in the eyes of another race. As sincerely as he believed

yesterday that we were all heroes, as sincerely Nehal Singh believes

to-day that there isn't an honest man among us."

This time Colonel Carmichael made no answer. He went over to the

window and stood there frowning obstinately out over the neglected

garden. His eyes fell on the ruined bungalow, and he called Nicholson

to his side.

"Look at that!" he said. "In that place Behar Singh murdered my best

and only friend, Steven Caruthers. I have not forgotten and I can not

forget. It has branded every native for me as a murderer. No doubt

this proves your argument. From the first I shrank from all contact

with the present Rajah. I distrusted him, and it is obvious now that

my distrust was well founded. What do you say, Stafford? You, too,

were against having anything to do with him."

To his surprise and annoyance, Stafford did not respond. He stood

there with his hands clasping the back of the chair, his brows knitted

in painful thought.

"Come, Stafford, what have you to say?" the Colonel repeated

impatiently.

"I think there is a good deal in what Nicholson says," Stafford

answered, speaking as though he had only just heard that he was being

addressed. "The Rajah has not been well treated. He has a right to

feel bitter. And he seemed a fine sort of man. Without prejudice,

Colonel, one can not withhold a certain admiration for him. He has

behaved better than some of us."

Colonel Carmichael frowned, but his sense of justice forced him to a

reluctant admission.

"Yes, he has a few showy virtues. Yesterday, for instance. Under

the circumstances, he behaved like a gentleman and a man of honor.

Before nightfall the English share-holders in the mine got their

money back in gems and rupees--he must have pulled the palace to

pieces. In fact, everything might have gone off smoothly if it hadn't

been for that--that--" He coughed and glanced at Stafford, not without

a touch of malicious satisfaction.

"You are alluding to Miss Cary, Colonel," Stafford said, returning his

glance with dignity, "and you are at liberty to say what you like, for

I have no longer the right to champion her. At her request, our

engagement is at an end. But as her friend I can not refrain from

saying this much--she has not spared herself, and, God knows, she also

has not been treated well."

What memories passed before the Colonel's mind as he stood there gazing

absently in front of him! Recollections of mean and envious criticisms,

ugly underhand slanders, petty intrigue, his own shame-faced patronage!

And then the vision of a lovely, white-faced woman making her desperate

self-accusal, and of a terrible, vulgar mother trying to hold her back

with threats and pleadings! He turned at last to the two men, his own

face red and troubled.

"I apologize," he said. "I apologize all around. I seem to have been

insulting everybody in turn. I dare say you are all right. The Rajah

may be ill-used and Miss Cary well-meaning. I don't know. And what on

earth does it matter? The fat is in the fire, and here we stand

chattering like old women about how it got there. Something must be

done. The regiment is a day's march from here, and with a company of

your Gurkhas, Nicholson, we shan't do much--scarcely hold out if they

dare attack us."

"They will dare," Nicholson answered. "So much I know for certain, and

it will probably be to-night. I can vouch for my men, and we must do

our best until help comes. But--" He paused rather significantly.

"But what, man? Don't you think it will come in time? I have already

telegraphed. They will be here in twenty-four hours. Surely we can

manage so long."

"Colonel, if you had seen what I saw last night, you would not count

much on help. It isn't the rising of a few unarmed men. It is the

revolt of a fanatic, warlike nation led by a man. They call him God.

His godhead does not matter to us. As a god we have no need to fear

him; but as a man and a born leader of men, with hatred and revenge as

an incentive, armed with unlimited power, he is an enemy not to be

held at bay by a handful of Gurkhas and not to be conquered by a

regiment."

His words had their quiet, fatal significance. Colonel Carmichael and

Stafford looked at each other. Hitherto they had faced the situation

coolly enough, with their eternal national optimism and self-confidence.

This man had wrenched down the veil, and they stood before a chasm to

which there seemed no shore, no bottom. It was the end, and they knew it.

"You mean, then, that it is all over?" the Colonel said casually. "You

know more than either of us. You ought to be able to tell."

"Yes, Colonel, I should judge that it was all over, unless a miracle

happens."

"We might fight our way through."

"On my way early this morning the roads were already guarded. They did

not recognize me, otherwise I should not be here."

"And the women?"

All three men had grown cool and indifferent. Death had stepped in,

and from that moment it was not seemly to show either trouble or

excitement.

"According to my idea, the women had better be lodged here in your

bungalow," Nicholson said. "The surrounding walls make it a good place

of defense. The barracks are too open."

The Colonel nodded. Quite unconsciously he was letting the reins of

command slip into the younger and stronger hands.

"They must be brought over at once," he assented. "Thank Heaven most

of them have gone to the hills. Mrs. Berry and that--that other woman

had better not be told what's up. They will only make a fuss. My wife

will understand--and Lois will be all right. We must get hold of

Travers, if it is only for her sake. It would serve him right if we

left him to his fate."

Stafford took a step forward.

"I have a suggestion to make, Colonel," he said.

Colonel Carmichael looked at him. Throughout the interview Stafford

had acted and spoken like a man who is weighed down by a burden of

terrible doubt and perplexity. He alone of the three men had shown the

first sign of emotion, and emotion in the face of death was for the

Colonel no better than fear. His face hardened.

"Well," he said, "what is it?"

"Rajah Nehal Singh is not a barbarian," Stafford began. "I believe he

would listen to reason if one of us could get hold of him. He seems to

have his country's welfare at heart, and if it was explained to what

horrible bloodshed he was leading it--"

"There must be no cringing!" Colonel Carmichael interrupted sharply.

"It will not be a case of cringing. We could simply put the matter

before him."

"There is something in what Stafford says," Nicholson agreed. "From

what I know of the Rajah, he seems both reasonable and humane. He may

have yielded to his father's importunities in a fit of anger, and is

perhaps already wishing himself well out of the mess. For the women's

sake, Colonel, we ought to have a shot--and not all for the women's

sake, either. Heaven knows what this business will cost England if it

comes to a head!"

Colonel Carmichael bit his lip impatiently. He did not recognize his

own motives of desiring a last hand-to-hand struggle. They were those

of an old man who sees Cheltenham and stagnation looming in the

distance and prays for death. But his common sense conquered the

selfish promptings.

"Who would be likely to undertake the mission with any hope of

success?" he asked.

"Nehal Singh and I were, toward the end, rather more than friendly,"

Nicholson began. "I believe he entertained a real liking for me--"

"If any one goes, I must!" The interruption came from Stafford. His

head was raised. He faced the two men with a stern determination. "No,

Nicholson; I know all you want to say. I have no sort of sympathy with

the natives--I haven't your power over them. But this is different. I

have a power. I may have. Let me go. If I fail, then you can try."

"By the time you have failed it will be too late," Nicholson returned.

He was watching Stafford with almost pitying curiosity. His keen

instinct penetrated the man's strained and nervous bearing to some

conflict which seemed to have had its birth with the first mention of

Nehal Singh's name.

"It will not be too late," Stafford answered persistently. "I ask for

an hour, Colonel. In an hour I shall know--whether--whether I have the

power."

"Captain Stafford, are you mad!" the Colonel said sternly. "This is

not a time for experiments."

"I ask for an hour," Stafford repeated, and there was an emphasis and

earnestness in his voice which cut short Colonel Carmichael's angry

sarcasm. "At the end of that time Nicholson can do what he likes. I am

not mad. I beg of you to ask no questions. I can not answer them. I

can only tell you that I have a great responsibility--toward you all

and toward another."

Colonel Carmichael was silent for a moment. Stafford's manner awed and

troubled him in spite of himself.

"Very well," he said at last. "I give you an hour. During that time we

will make preparations for the worst." He took out his watch. "It is

now eleven. At twelve the matter passes into Nicholson's hands."

Stafford saluted.

"I understand, Colonel."

Nicholson accompanied him toward the door.

"God-speed!" he said simply. Stafford hesitated, his heavy eyes

resting on the fine face of his brother-officer with an almost

passionate gratitude.

"Thank you, Nicholson, thank you. God help me to do what is right!"

He turned and hurried from the room.

CHAPTER V

MURDER

Archibald Travers stood in his favorite attitude by the window, his

shoulder propped against the casement, his arms folded, a smile of

good-natured amusement on his healthy face.

"My dear child," he protested, "what earthly interest can it have for

you to know the pros and cons of the business? You wouldn't

understand, and that small head would ache for a week afterward. Be

content with the outline of the thing. Of course it has all been

frightfully unfortunate. But the Rajah wasn't to be held back. He

believed the mine was going to be the making of Marut--and for a

matter of fact so did I at first, otherwise I shouldn't have put all

my money in it. The fellow had an enthusiasm and confidence which

fairly carried us off our feet. Well, it's done, and it's no use

crying about it. The best thing we can do is to clear out of Marut as

fast as we can. People are bound to be disagreeable about it."

"The Carys are ruined too?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know--they have lost a bit, I suppose." His voice sounded

unpleasant. "At any rate, I'll say that for them--they behaved as

people of their extraction would behave. First the mother poured out a

torrent of abuse over the poor Rajah which would have been the envy of

a fish-wife, and then the daughter turned on me." He laughed. "It was

a most powerful scene of feminine hysterics. I was glad that you were

not there."

Lois sat silent, her head resting on her hand, her eyes fixed

thoughtfully on the table.

"And what are we going to do?" she asked at last. "You take the matter

so easily, but if we are really ruined--"

He laid his hand affectionately on her shoulder.

"_I_ am ruined, Lois. I did not say that you were. Even with your

rather low opinion of me, you could hardly have supposed that I would

touch your money. You are well enough off to do what you like. As for

me--" he squared his shoulders--"I feel quite capable of starting

things all over again."

His tone touched her. She looked up, and her face softened. There was

nothing that could have made her happier than to have discovered in

her husband some elements of courage and sincerity.

"Of course, Archibald, whatever is mine is yours," she said. "You must

have known that."

"My dear generous little woman!" He bent over her and kissed her,

apparently unconscious that she instinctively drew back from his

caress. "If you really will help me, no doubt I shall build things up

again in no time, and this one blunder won't count for much. You are a

worthy comrade for a man."

Perhaps he had accepted her offer too quickly, perhaps his tone jarred

on her as too elated, too satisfied. She got up, pushing her letters

quickly to one side.

"You really wish us to start for Madras to-night?"

"Yes, if you can manage it. It is important that I should get back as

soon as possible, and the business here is finished."

"Very well. I will pack up as much as I can. The rest must be sent on

afterward."

He let her reach the door before he stopped her again.

"By the way, Lois, there is one thing I must ask you. I do not wish

you to have any further intercourse with that Beatrice Cary. She is

not a person with whom I should wish my wife to associate. You were

right about her--she is a bad, unscrupulous woman."

With her hand on the curtain she turned and looked back at him. A

cloud of curious distrust passed over her pale face.

"I never said that she was bad or unscrupulous. I do not believe that

she is. You say that now, but it was not your old opinion."

"I suppose it is possible to see people in different and less

agreeable lights?" he retorted sharply.

"Only too possible. But as she was never a friend of mine, and we are

leaving within the next few hours, the injunction to avoid her is

unnecessary." She paused as though listening. "I hear some one talking

to the syce," she went on hurriedly. "It sounds like Captain

Stafford's voice. Archibald"--she turned and came quickly to his

side--"please let me out of the verandah. I don't want to meet him."

He caught her by the wrist and pushed her back. The movement was

brutal, unlike his usual gentleness, and she saw by the expression of

his face that for the moment he had lost all consciousness of what he

was doing.

"I don't want to see him either. Go and tell him that I am not at

home--that I have started for Madras--quick! Don't stand there

staring."

His extraordinary excitement, apparently unreasonable and entirely

opposed to his calm, easy-going habits, had the effect of setting fire

to her dormant suspicion. She wrenched herself free.

"I am not going to tell him a lie," she said firmly.

"Lois, you are a little fool! Do as I tell you. It isn't a lie--only a

piece of conventional humbug which everybody understands. There,

please!" His tone of entreaty was more disagreeable to her than his

roughness. All the pride and rigidity of her Puritan temperament was

up in arms against the indefinable something which it had long ago

recognized and despised.

"It is not conventional humbug," she retorted--"not in this case. You

are lying because you are afraid, because you have a reason for not

seeing Captain Stafford which you won't tell me."

He had not time to answer. The curtains were pushed on one side, and

Stafford entered hurriedly. He was covered with dust and looked

haggard and exhausted. He did not seem to see Lois, though she stood

immediately in front of him. His eyes passed over her head to Travers.

"I am sorry to come in unannounced," he said, without giving either an

opportunity to speak, "but your servant was making difficulties, and I

have not a minute to lose. I have galloped every inch of the way here

from the Colonel's bungalow. I must speak to you at once, Travers,

alone."

Lois went toward the door. As she passed him she saw him look at her

for the first time. And she went her way blinded with tears that had

no cause save in the stern, unhappy face which had flashed its message

to her. For she knew that his glance had been a message; that he had

tried to explain, and that she had not understood. The curtain fell

behind her, and Stafford crossed the room to Travers' side.

"You have heard what has happened?" he demanded.

Travers had resumed his old attitude of indifference. Only his eyes

betrayed the uneasiness which he was really feeling.

"Do you mean the Rajah? No, I haven't heard anything, but if he is

making himself a nuisance, I am not surprised. I expected it."

"Don't talk like that!" Stafford exclaimed, bringing his clenched hand

down on the table. "How dare you! Have you no sense of responsibility?

For you it was no more than a doubtful speculation, and you took care

that there were no risks; but for Marut it means--Heaven knows what it

means!"

"Nothing!" returned Travers coolly. "Nothing to get heated about. The

Rajah feels sore, no doubt, but that will pass. And that is not my

fault. It would have been all right if Miss Cary had not--well, made

such a fool of herself, and incidentally of us all."

Stafford gazed steadily at the man who smiled at him. He could not

understand a character so absolutely without all moral foundations.

"You are no doubt preparing to start for Madras?" he asked,

controlling his voice with a strong effort.

"Certainly. There is nothing more to be done here."

"Let me tell you that you are not likely to leave Marut alive."

Travers laughed.

"Nonsense, my dear Captain! I am not to be frightened with nursery

tales."

"It is not a nursery tale. I give you my word of honor that before

nightfall we shall be overwhelmed by a force a hundred times larger

than anything we can bring on the field for weeks to come."

Travers shifted his position carelessly. Stafford had not succeeded in

frightening him. He did not believe in native rebellions. What he had

seen of the Hindu character convinced him of its fundamental

cowardice and incapability for independent action.

"A few blank cartridges will bring the Rajah very quickly to his

senses," he assured Stafford, with perfect good-humor. "We have

nothing to be afraid of in that quarter."

"You really think that?" Stafford demanded significantly. "Knowing

what you know, you think we have no cause to fear him?"

Travers changed color. The uneasy flicker in his eyes returned.

"What on earth do you mean?"

"You know very well. You know whom we shall be fighting against."

"Of course--a headlong, inexperienced Hindu prince--"

"You are choosing to have a very short memory. Nehal Singh is more

than that."

Travers stood upright. The healthy glow had died out of his cheeks.

"Look here, Stafford," he said roughly, "what is it you want? I can

see you want something."

"Yes. Give me back my promise. I can not keep it any longer."

"Do you think I extort promises that I don't want kept? Are you in

earnest?"

"Yes, terribly in earnest. Look the thing in the face, Travers. Our

lives, and, what is far more, the lives of our women and Heaven knows

how many of our countrymen, hang in the balance. If you don't believe

me, ask Nicholson."

"I shall believe what I like!" Travers began to pace backward and

forward, his mind busy with lightning calculations. Before nightfall

they would be out of Marut. Stafford was exaggerating the danger,

perhaps for his own purposes. The whole thing was nonsense.

"I keep you to your promise," he said obstinately.

Stafford lifted his head. The man's natural reserve and

conventionalism were borne down by the sense of his helplessness. He

was fighting against a giant of egoism, as it seemed to him, of gross

and criminal stupidity, for the lives of untold hundreds.

"You can not realize what you are doing," he said. "It is our one hope

of holding the Rajah's hand, and with every moment the danger is

increasing. As I came along the road I passed crowds of natives on the

way to the palace. Most of them were men from your mine, Travers, and

they had an ugly look. They did not touch me, it is true, but I

believe they are only waiting for Nehal Singh's order, and then it

will be too late. Travers, we must do everything in our power to

prevent him giving that order. I have promised Colonel Carmichael to

do what I could. At twelve I must be back, or--"

Travers swung around. His face was livid.

"You told him--?"

"No, but I must. I can not keep my promise. You must set me free. I

gave it you because you told me that I was not concerned. Now I am

concerned, I dare not keep silence."

"My dear fellow, you must--that is, if you are a man of honor."

"Of what use is the secret to you?"

"That is my affair. There was a time when you were anxious enough to

keep it."

"It was for Lois' sake. The two things were bound up together. She can

not be spared any longer."

"You think not? I am of another opinion. I put my wife's peace of mind

higher than your old-maidish alarms." Travers faced his companion with

the assurance of a man who feels that he has the whip-hand. His

experience taught him that a man of certain orthodox principles has a

very limited sphere of action. He runs in herds with hundreds of other

men of the same mould, and under given circumstances has only one

course of conduct open to him. Had Travers been in Stafford's place,

no one living could have told what he would do. But Stafford had no

choice--at least, so Travers judged.

"You are one of honor's Pharisees, my dear fellow," he said frankly.

"You can't get out of your promise, and you know it. You cling to the

letter of the law. It is your way. You had better go back to the

Colonel and tell him to manage the Rajah in his own style."

The clock on the table chimed the half-hour. It was ten minutes' full

gallop back to the Colonel's bungalow. Stafford set his teeth in a

white heat of despair.

"If you have no consideration for the Station, for your own wife, for

your own country, at least consider yourself!" he exclaimed. "Are you

blind to the danger? We have scarcely fifty men, and up there are

thousands quietly waiting for the Rajah's signal. You must have seen

them with your own eyes pouring through--"

"I saw any amount of dirty pilgrims, and got out of the way as fast as

I could," was Travers' smiling retort.

Stafford stood baffled and helpless. For the first time he was able to

recognize and appreciate a certain type of Englishman to which he

himself to some extent belonged--an arrogant ignoramus who, encamped

behind his wall of superiority, fears nothing because he sees nothing,

and sees nothing because outside the walls there can not possibly be

anything worth looking at. Nicholson had torn down Stafford's imagined

security, and he stood aghast at his old insolent self-confidence as

reflected in Travers' smiling face.

"To be quite honest with you," the latter went on, after a moment's

pause, "I have very little faith in our dreadful danger. Admitted that

I led the Rajah on a more than doubtful speculation, admitted that

Miss Cary went further than she need have done, it is still most

unlikely that his injured feelings are going to lead him to such a

desperate step as to enter into conflict with the whole Empire.

Believe me, Stafford, the idea is ridiculous, and I have not the least

intention of throwing up my own hard-won security--"

It was a bad slip, and he knew it. Stafford, who had stood with his

face half averted, in an attitude of irresolution, swung round.

"Your security?" he echoed.

Travers shrugged his shoulders. He had made a mistake, but he saw no

reason to be afraid of Stafford or of any one in Marut.

"I said 'my security,'" he repeated.

Stafford clenched his fists. The expression on his gaunt, rugged face

showed that he had understood the full import of Travers' words.

"You blackguard!" he said under his breath.

Travers turned scarlet.

"Mind yourself, Captain Stafford. You may find yourself outside the

door quicker than you care for it!"

"You blackguard!" Stafford repeated furiously. "I haven't a better

name for you. You have simply humbugged me with your lies about Lois

and your devotion to her--"

Travers strode at him.

"How dare you!"

"Don't bluster, Travers! It can't hide what I see. You married Lois

for her money--"

"Hold your infernal tongue!"

"And now you are afraid. Well, you shall have some cause." He picked

up his helmet, which lay on the table. "I gave you my promise because

you assured me it was for Lois' happiness, and I believed you.

According to my ideas, both of them were better left in ignorance. I

did not know that you had your own motives--silly fool that I am!" He

turned to hurry from the room. Travers barred his way.

"What are you going to do?"

"I shall tell the Colonel the truth!"

"It will break his heart."

"I do not believe it. Out of the way, Travers!"

"And then?"

"Rajah Nehal Singh shall be told."

"Have you considered the consequences?"

"I have."

"Lois will be ruined!"

"_You_ will be ruined. Lois will have my protection, thank God!"

The two men faced each other an instant in silence. Travers' face

betrayed a curious complex emotion of desperation and shame. He had

been called a blackguard, and the word had stung like the cut of a

horse-whip. He had never believed it possible that any man should have

the right to use such a term--to him, the embodiment of geniality,

good-humor and good-nature. He did not believe even now that any

one had the right. He was not an unprincipled man--not in the sense

that he had ever consciously done wrong. He did not know what wrong

was--his one conception being an act putting him within reach of the

law; and of such an indiscretion he had never been guilty. Throughout

his scheming he had always pictured himself as a complaisant Napoleon

of finance, combining business with pleasure. His conduct toward Lois

had been based on this standpoint. He was genuinely fond of her, and is

there any law forbidding a man to lay firm hold upon his wife's money?

Yet Stafford had called him a blackguard, and Stafford was the world--the

world of respectability of which Travers had believed himself a gifted

member. For the moment the incomprehensible insult was more to him than

the coming danger to which his plans were put.

"You look at me as though I had committed a crime!" he exclaimed, in a

tone of injured protest.

"You have," Stafford answered steadily. "You have fooled me, playing

on my prejudices, and God knows what other weaknesses. I won't say

anything of that. I deserve my share of blame. But you have tricked

and deceived a woman. You have deceived an honorable man into a

dishonorable venture. You have brought disaster on your own country.

You are no more than a common adventurer. You are the parasite to whom

we owe all our misfortunes, and--"

"Stafford, take care!"

"Out of the way! I am going to put an end to it all!"

Travers flung the excited man back. Shame is a dangerous poison in the

blood of base natures. It is merely the precursor to a state of

absolute license where self-control, self-respect are flung to the

winds and the devil is set free to work his full, unchecked will.

Travers glared at Stafford, hating his upright bearing, his upright

indignation with a violence to which murder would have been the only

true expression.

"You are not going till I have your promise to hold your tongue!" he

said between his teeth.

Stafford flung the other's detaining hand from him. Freed from his

laming diseased conscience, and roused to activity, he acted like a

man of lightning determination and iron will.

"That you will never have, and you are a scoundrel to ask for it. As

you like--there are other exits than the door." He swung round and

made for the open window.

Travers did not stop him. He stood rooted to the spot, his hand on the

revolver which he carried at his side. The revolver had not been meant

for Stafford. Travers' quick eyes had caught sight of something

creeping slowly and stealthily up the verandah steps. He had seen the

flash of a knife, and a cry of warning had rushed to his lips. The cry

was never uttered. Devil and angel fought their last battle over

Travers' drifting, rudderless nature. The word "scoundrel" had been

the devil's winning cast.

"Go, then, and be damned to you!" Travers shrieked.

He saw Stafford reach the verandah steps. The stalwart khaki-clad figure

was photographed on his reeling brain. He heard the clank of a sword

against the first stone step. He tried to cry out--afterward he tried

to believe that he had cried out--but it was too late. The hidden

something which had crouched behind the heavy creepers sprang up--for

a short second seemed to tower above the unconscious officer--then a

gleam of light flashed down with the black hand. Stafford flung up his

arms, swung around, and fell face downward on the verandah. There was a

short, stifled groan, and then--and then only--Travers fired.

[Illustration: Then--and then only--Travers fired.]

CHAPTER VI

CLEARING AWAY THE RUBBISH

All the night following the momentous meeting of the Marut Diamond

Company Mrs. Cary had kept to her room, the door locked against her

daughter, and had sobbed and wailed in a manner befitting the victim

of a hard and undeserved fate.

But in reality hers was the rage of a clumsy workman who has cut

himself with his own tools. Her own child, her partner and co-worker,

had upset the erection of years. She saw themselves cast out of Marut;

she saw the desolate wandering over the earth's surface, this time

without the consolation and protection of wealth. For she knew that

Beatrice's confession was to go further. Beatrice had made the

announcement of her plans quietly but firmly as they had driven home

from the club-house.

"To-morrow everybody shall know everything there is to know," she had

said, and had remained obdurate to all her mother's commands and

pleadings. "I do consider you. I consider you even now. I mean to save

you and myself. But this time it must be in another way. Your scheming

has only brought us into deeper trouble. We must start afresh."

"But how? But how?" her mother had said, wringing her hands in

uncontrolled despair. "Where are we to start? How are we ever going to

make people believe in us, now we have no money?"

"It does not matter what people believe," Beatrice had replied. "With

our money and our lies we have been building mud-hovels, and now we

are going to build palaces. That's all that matters."

Mrs. Cary had not understood. She thought Beatrice had gone mad, and

knowing that with madness, reasoning is in vain, she shut herself up

in her room, pulled down the blinds, and believed by this ostrich-like

proceeding that she could keep off the inevitable moment when they

would have to be pulled up again and the cold, pitiless reality faced.

But Beatrice went her way undeterred. From Stafford's bungalow she

drove to the Travers'. The place was little more than an ill-cared-for

shanty, the garden overgrown with weeds, the rooms damp, ill-aired and

badly furnished, its reputation for misfortune phenomenal. Travers had

taken it as the only bungalow to be had for such a short period as he

intended to stay in Marut, and Lois had made no objection. Her energy

and determined striving after everything that was graceful and

beautiful was systematically crushed out of sight. She never

protested, never laid any difficulties in Travers' path. She seemed to

shrink into herself and live an invisible life of her own, leaving him

to go his way. She could not help him. She could build up nothing on a

character whose foundations were of shifting sand.

And never had she been more fully convinced of her own powerlessness

and of his absolute independence than after their brief and stormy

interview before Stafford's entry. She had felt how for a moment their

two diametrically opposed natures had faced each other. She had felt a

brief joyful satisfaction in at last coming to a hand-to-hand struggle

with him; but then, as usual, with a smile and an easy word he had

eluded her. So it had always been--so it would always be. Too late she

realized that she had thrown away her life upon a man who had no need

of her devotion. Too late she realized that all sacrifices are wasted

unless the ennobling of the sacrificer's character be considered. For

true happiness, true content and goodness can not be given. They must

be self-won, or they are no more than hothouse plants which shrivel

together in the cold blast of an east wind. Lois had sacrificed herself

to bring true happiness and content and goodness into Travers' life,

and had failed. She had failed all the more signally because she had

never loved him. She had loved Stafford--extraordinary and terrible as

it seemed to her, she still loved him. She could not root him out of her

life, and though his image was overshadowed by a greater and more noble

figure he retained his place.

The glance they had exchanged had pierced down to the very center of

her being, and if it had revealed nothing to her it had also revealed

everything. For she knew now that the strange bond which had linked

them together from the beginning united them still. Some reckless and

unscrupulous hand had sundered them outwardly, and her instinct,

guided by a hundred significant incidents, told her whose hand it

had been. She fled to her little gloomy sitting-room, with its

worn-out, tasteless furniture and drab walls, and fought her sorrow

and despair single-handed and in her own way. She had a man's dislike

for tears--though, being a woman, they came all too easily to her--and

she fought against them now with all the strength at her command, with

all the pluck which in happier days had made her so splendid a partner

in a "losing game." She had made a disastrous mistake in her life, but

it was not too late.

The cathedral should go on in its unseen growth, and every conquered

tear, every brave smile was a fresh stone bringing it nearer to

perfection. God be thanked for the fetishes with which the less

fortunate of us are still allowed to adorn the barren walls of our

life! The cathedral, the imaginary "sheltering-place for others," was

Lois' fetish, and the thought of it and of the strong-faced man with

whom she worked in spiritual partnership was a deep, inspiring

consolation. It stood at her right hand and helped partly to overthrow

the weight of dread and evil presentiment which had borne down upon

her all too sensitive and superstitious temperament as she had left

her husband and Stafford alone.

Thus it was that, when the curtains of her room were suddenly parted

and Beatrice stood on the threshold, she could face the new-comer with

a calm if grave demeanor. She remembered her husband's last

injunctions, but it was too late; and moreover, there was an

expression on Beatrice's face which told her that the visit was no

ordinary one. A woman's instinct is her spiritual hand feeling through

the darkness to another's soul. Beatrice and Lois watched each other

without smile or greeting. They forgot the outward formalities of life

in the suddenly aroused interest which they found in each other, in

the consciousness that in this, their first meeting alone, they were

to become closely united.

They were indeed striking contrasts. At no time had they seemed more

so than now, as they stood there silently facing each other--Beatrice,

tall, fair with the wonderful Madonna beauty; Lois, small and dark,

the quick and fiery temperament flashing to meet the other's dignity

and apparent calm. And yet at no time had the barrier between them

been so insignificant, so slight. Beatrice advanced slowly from the

door, where she had first hesitated.

"May I speak with you, Mrs. Travers?" she asked.

Lois nodded, mechanically holding out her hand. Her eyes were riveted

on the other's grave face, drinking in with a real admiration a

loveliness from which the old marring lines of mockery and cynicism

had been swept away.

"Won't you sit down?" she said gently. "You look tired and pale."

Beatrice seemed not to hear. She took the outstretched hand between

both her own. Her head was a little bent, and as she looked full into

Lois' face her expression softened and saddened.

"You, too, are unhappy!" she said.

Lois made no answer. She was overwhelmed by the directness of the

statement, but still more by the change in Beatrice's voice. It

sounded low and unsteady, as though a storm of feeling lay close

beneath the surface. "Do you wonder how I know?" Beatrice went on,

after an instant's pause.

"I don't know," Lois answered, "and for the moment we won't talk about

such things. I can't bear to see you look so--so ill. You must sit

there and let me get you something to drink. Have you walked?"

Beatrice yielded this time to the kindly persuasion. She sank down in

the proffered chair, but she retained Lois' hand.

"No, I drove. But I am tired. It was not easy work getting through the

crowd. They did not seem to want to let me pass. Once or twice I

thought they were going to attack me."

Lois laughed.

"They are only pilgrims. They come every year, and are quite harmless.

Hark at them now! There must be a band of them going past. Would you

like to watch from the verandah? It is really amusing--"

"No, no; this is not the time for amusement. I have something else to

do. Mrs. Travers, you are very kind to me. You have the right to hate

me."

"I--hate you? Why should I, Beatrice?"

"You call me Beatrice. But we have never been friends."

"Not till now."

"Do you think we are going to be?"

Lois drew up a stool and seated herself at Beatrice's side. Something

in the other's firm, gentle hold and in the low voice made her heart

ache.

"I don't know. I feel as though we were already."

"Don't feel that, because it is not possible. Mrs. Travers, do you know

who it was who came between you and John Stafford?" Lois' head sank.

"I see that you do. Yes, I did my best. I wanted his position--and

money. Are you still my friend?"

Lois met the grave, questioning eyes with a sudden energy.

"Yes. That is all over and past. I like you now. I liked you the

moment you entered the room. You seemed different."

Beatrice smiled faintly.

"And you, too, are different from any one I have ever known. Another

woman would not have been able to forgive as you have done. I have

spoiled your life. I can see that."

Lois pressed her hand.

"Hush! You must not say so. I am married--"

"Lois, I have spoiled your life. I have come here to tell you the

truth, and you also must be truthful. For pity's sake, let us put lies

and humbug on one side. I am sick of them!" For a moment she seemed to

fight desperately with herself, and then she went on more quietly: "I

have spoiled your life. I have spoiled the life of a man who trusted

me. I have spoiled my own. That is what I have done in the twenty-five

years given me to work in. I have lied and cheated my way through. And

this is the end--miserable bankruptcy."

"Yes," Lois said, nodding. "I heard about it."

"About what? Has your husband told you?"

"The Marut Company has failed."

Beatrice sat silent a moment. Her free hand supported the firmly

moulded chin, her eyes were fixed thoughtfully in front of her.

"I did not mean that sort of bankruptcy," she said at last. "That

doesn't count, Lois. I used to think it meant the worst sort of

misfortune, but it doesn't. The inner bankruptcy is worse. The loss of

self-respect, of honor, of the trust of those one--cares for--" Again

the low voice trembled dangerously, but she went on: "Don't

commiserate with me, kind-hearted little woman. I don't need your

pity--now. Bankruptcy isn't so bad. It is better than living on false

credit. When the crash is over, one picks oneself up again. Hope is

eternal, and on the ruins--"

"One can build cathedrals," Lois interposed dreamily.

"Yes, or palaces. But first the old rubbish must be cleared away. One

must pay one's debts. I have very many to pay. First to you, Lois--"

"Don't! I have told you that that is all over."

"--and then to Captain Stafford. Lois, I did want to take him away

from you, but I never succeeded. It was something else that did

it--something which I have never understood."

"But which my husband knows?"

Beatrice nodded. She was not there to spare Lois or herself. She was

there to tell the truth.

"Yes, he knows. But it is a mystery which we shall never penetrate. At

any rate, I have set Captain Stafford free."

Lois said nothing. Her thoughts were busy trying to piece together the

secret. With every moment distrust and suspicion were taking stronger

hold upon her.

"Lois," Beatrice went on, "that is the least of it all. The worst of

all is that I can not pay my debts alone. I must go on ruining others.

I must ruin you."

Lois stiffened. She sat upright, as though preparing herself for a

shock which she dimly anticipated.

"Tell me what you mean," she said.

"You remember it was I who tempted Rajah Nehal Singh into forming the

Marut Company--"

"That is not what you want to say. It was my husband's scheme."

"Very well, it was our scheme, if you like. At any rate, the whole

responsibility rests--or should rest--upon our shoulders. We have

ruined him, and we have ruined hundreds of others. It is only fair

that we should bear our share of the calamity."

"And haven't we done so? You have lost all your money. That is

punishment enough. And Archie, too--" She paused, a fierce note of

defiance ringing out with her last words. Beatrice made no answer, and

the two women looked at each other in significant silence. "You don't

mean that--that it was--dishonest?"

"I have no doubt Mr. Travers believed the mine was going to be a

success. But it has failed, and the whole burden of the failure rests

upon others, not upon him."

"My husband is ruined, too. All his money is gone."

"Yours remains."

"Yes, but--" She stammered and broke off helplessly.

Beatrice said nothing more. She saw the process of rapid thought on

her companion's working face. She knew there was no need to explain

further the careful precautions which Travers had made for his own

safety. She knew that for his wife there was only one action possible.

Lois rose to her feet.

"You must forgive me," she said, a new and dangerous light in her dark

eyes. "I am very slow and stupid about business matters, but I

understand what you have been trying to say to me. You have pointed

out a duty to me which otherwise, in my ignorance, I might have

overlooked. My husband has incurred responsibilities which must be

met--if not by him, at any rate by me. No third person shall take his

share of the burden--certainly not the Rajah, who was no more than the

tool which my husband used. I would be glad if you would let every one

know that of course my money will go toward refunding those whom the

failure of the mine has injured."

Beatrice rose also. She put her two hands on Lois' shoulders.

"You needn't do it," she said. "The money is yours. It is a thing that

is done every day. The world won't say much if you stick to what is

yours."

"It is not mine. My husband's responsibilities are my

responsibilities." She paused, and then went on quietly: "Thank you

for explaining to me. I should never have understood myself, and

Archie--no doubt dreads having to tell me that of course my money must

go, too." She looked Beatrice full in the face, and they understood

each other. There are some lies which a loyal woman must carry with

her to the grave. Beatrice bent and kissed the cold face.

"You do right," she said. "I knew you would. That is why I came to

you. I have helped to bring down all this misfortune on Marut. I have

helped to lower us all in the eyes of those--those who used and ought

to look up to us. Now you are going to lift us out of the mire--Lois,

what was that?"

The two women clung to each other. Hitherto there had been no sound in

the adjoining room save the regular rise and fall of two voices. Now

the startled listeners heard the report of a revolver, followed by a

sudden, absolute silence. Lois shook herself free from Beatrice's

instinctive clutch.

"It is in my husband's room!" she said hoarsely. "Stay here! I will

go--"

She hurried across the room and, thrusting open a curtained door,

disappeared. The next instant Beatrice heard a cry which overcame

every hesitation. Horror and despair called her in that sound, and the

next moment she followed Lois' footsteps. She did not know what she

expected to see. Afterward she believed that at the back of her mind

there had been some thought of suicide. But it was not Travers' head

that she saw pillowed against Lois' knee. Travers stood on the

verandah, the smoking pistol still in his hand, his face livid and

damp with fear. At his feet his wife was bending over the body of a

man whom Beatrice recognized with a shock of pain.

"What has happened?" she asked breathlessly. "What has happened?"

Travers turned and stared at her. His eyes were glazed, and for the

moment he did not seem to know who she was.

"Captain Stafford has--been murdered!" he stammered. "He was going

down the steps when a native attacked him. I--fired, but it was too

late. Oh, thank God! Here is Colonel Carmichael!"

True enough, it was the Colonel himself who sprang up the verandah

steps. From beyond the ill-kept garden they heard the tramp of men and

a low, continuous sound, like the threatening moan of the wind. On the

verandah reigned a complete and awestruck silence. Colonel Carmichael

bent over the unconscious man.

"This is the beginning," he said somberly. "How did it happen?"

"A native must have been lying in wait for him," Travers answered. "He

struck at him with this." He held out a three-inch blade in a hand

which shook like a child's. "I tried to save him, but I couldn't. The

man escaped, though I think I hit him."

The Colonel knelt down by Lois' side, and drawing out his brandy-flask

tried to force a few drops between the purple lips.

"We were expecting him every minute," he said, "but we couldn't wait.

The danger was too pressing. Here, man--it's all right. Look up."

Captain Stafford's heavy eyelids had wavered. The Colonel shifted him

into a higher position, his head still resting against Lois' knee.

When the dying eyes opened they fell straight on the sweet dark face

bent over him in loving pity.

"Lois!" he whispered faintly. "Lois--my--kiss me!"

Lois looked up at her husband. He nodded without meeting her eyes. Her

lips rested on the chilly forehead.

"Dear John!"

"Lois--you--tell the Rajah----" He struggled fiercely for breath and

his raised hand pointed piteously at Travers. "Tell him--not--his

own"--The words died into a choked silence.

"Brandy--here! He's trying to say something. What is it, man?"

Stafford turned with a last effort, his lips parted. A second time he

pointed with a desperate insistency at Travers--then with a sudden

quick-drawn sigh he sank back, his face against Lois' shoulder.

Colonel Carmichael, who knew death too well, rose heavily to his feet.

"It's all over," he said. "We can do nothing more for him, and we must

leave him. Come, Lois."

His stern command roused her from her stupor of half-incredulous

sorrow. Gently she laid the lifeless head upon the cushions which

Beatrice had brought, and crossed the hands over the quiet breast.

This time she fought in vain against the blinding tears. They fell on

the face of the dead man, and, moved by an irresistible impulse, she

bent once more and kissed him.

"God bless you, John!" Then she rose and faced her husband. "I can not

help it," she said. "He is dead."

Travers said nothing. He was clinging to the verandah, and his face

was grey. Outside the noise and confusion had increased. They could

hear yells and imprecations, and a stone whizzed through the trees,

falling a few feet short of where the little party stood. Colonel

Carmichael shook Travers by the arm.

"Don't stand there like that!" he said, his voice rough with contempt.

"It can't be helped, and I dare say we shan't any of us be much better

off by to-morrow. I have a patrol outside waiting to take the ladies

over to my bungalow. Mrs. Cary and Mrs. Berry are already there. There

isn't a moment to be lost. Rouse yourself and look to Lois. I will

escort Miss Cary." He turned to Beatrice with a stiff bow. "The enemy

must at least find us united."

"The enemy!" exclaimed Beatrice sharply.

"The Rajah is our enemy," was the bitter answer. "You and Travers best

know why."

The two women exchanged one brief glance. Lois crossed the intervening

space and took her husband's arm.

"Archibald," she said, slowly and emphatically, "if this trouble has

anything to do with the mine, it would be well to let the Rajah know

that we also take our share. There must be no suspicion that--that we

have not acted honorably or have shirked our responsibilities."

He stared at her with dull, listless eyes.

"What do you mean, Lois? He knows I haven't a brass cent."

"But I have. And of course my money must go to refund those whom you

have unintentionally ruined."

That roused him. He flung her on one side, with a desperate, goaded

curse.

"Your money! How dare you! It's not your money. Half of it is mine. I

settled it on you."

"If it is yours, I will give it back to you. You will use it as I say.

If not, I shall use it for you."

Colonel Carmichael had reached the garden. He turned now, and there

was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

"That's spoken like an honorable woman, Lois!" he said. "God bless you

for it. But it's too late. Nicholson has already gone to Nehal Singh.

If he fails, there won't be any time to explain. Come on, or we shall

have to fight our way through."

He hurried on through the garden, Beatrice at his side. Husband and

wife stood an instant alone, the body of poor Stafford between them.

Lois' face was grave and contemptuous.

"I do not know what you have done," she said--"I do not understand

what part you played in John's life or in mine, nor how far you are

innocent or guilty of bringing about all this misfortune--but I know

this much--we shall take our share of trouble."

"Lois, you are my wife! You have no right to go against me."

"I have the right where my honor--where your honor--is concerned. I

have the right to refuse to commit an act of gross injustice." She

glanced down once more at the quiet face of the man who had held so

persistently upon her life and heart, and her firmly compressed lips

trembled. "Oh, Archie, was it worth while--just for a little bit of

gain? Was it worth while? We might all have been so happy!"

He said nothing. His rage had sunk into a sullen, dogged defiance. The

roar of voices beyond the compound suddenly subsided. They heard the

Colonel's voice issuing a sharp command and the thud of grounded

rifles.

"We must go," she said.

He followed her down the steps, his face painfully averted from the

figure that lay motionless upon the ground. The world is but a

reflection of ourselves. The sunshine is sad or joyful according to

our moods. We read threats and promises in the smiles of others as our

own heart is hopeful or distrusting. And for Travers, with the

bloodstained hand, the poor lifeless body of his enemy had become the

towering shadow of an approaching Nemesis.

CHAPTER VII

IN THE TEMPLE OF VISHNU

Nicholson rode his horse slowly through the crowd of dark, threatening

faces. He did not hurry or show any sign of impatience, anger or fear.

In his left hand he carried a riding-whip, but he made no use of it

except as an encouragement to his well-trained charger, whose nose and

broad breast forced a passage, like a ship through the waves of a

turbulent sea, and otherwise he was absolutely unarmed. A spectator

ignorant of the truth might have taken him for an officer riding out

on some ordinary duty, so little did the weight and seriousness of his

real errand appear written on the strong face beneath the shadow of

the helmet.

There was no opposition to his progress. His keen eyes noticed as he

passed out of the residential quarter that, on the contrary, the crowd

formed a sort of disordered escort which surged restlessly but

silently about him. One man even laid hold upon his hanging bridle and

led the horse through the less dense passages; but the action was not

a friendly one, and though no threats were uttered, Nicholson read a

passionate bitterness and distrust upon the faces that thrust

themselves across his path or sprang up unexpectedly at his knee. For

the most part they were men well known to him by sight. They belonged

to working caste whose circles had supplied Nehal Singh with his best

workmen, though here and there Nicholson caught sight of the turbaned

head of a small merchant or the naked body of a yogi.

It was a significant fact that the worst of Marut's population--the

beggars, thieves and vagrants--was mostly lacking. These men were the

hope upon which Nehal Singh had built his Utopia, the industrious,

intelligent minority, and these were they whom he was now calling

about him by the power of personality and superstition. Nicholson knew

enough of the Hindu character to be well aware that it was not the

loss of employment nor of their small savings which had brought them

together and put their knives in their hands ready to strike. The

Hindu accepts misfortune with the languid stoicism of the fatalist;

injury and wrong rarely rouse him, especially, as in this case, when

it comes too indirectly for him to trace the real injurer. But to

touch his religion is to touch the innermost sanctuary of his being,

where are stored the hidden fires of fanatic energy, hatred and

reckless courage. And Nehal Singh was their religion, their Messiah,

the Avatar for whose coming their whole nation waited. Hitherto he had

led them in peace, and they had followed, though other influences had

been at work.

Even in this moment he still controlled them. Nicholson felt that a

strong unseen hand held the crowd in that strange silence beneath

which rumbled and groaned the growing storm. He had seen dark hands

finger the unsheathed knives; he had seen them reluctantly fall away.

The hour had not yet come. Nehal Singh waited. For what? For him? The

idea seemed absurd, and yet, as Nicholson felt himself being swept on,

it took stronger hold upon his mind and his faint hope of success

revived. He believed that, once face to face with the prince, he would

be able to check the headlong disaster which was bearing down upon

them all. They had been friends in a curious unacknowledged way. Nehal

Singh would listen to him. He would be made to understand that one

adventurer and one heartless woman do not make a nation; that the

injury done him was far from irreparable.

A low exclamation close at hand roused him from his rapid

considerations. He saw that the man who had hold of his horse's bridle

had turned and with one outstretched hand was pointing over the heads

of the crowd.

"Look, Sahib, look!"

Nicholson glanced in the direction indicated. They were passing the

site of the old Bazaar, now a black, scarred waste of machinery and

disembowelled earth over which brooded a death-like quiet. Nicholson

remembered vividly the day he had ridden there at Nehal Singh's side.

A breathless, eager humanity had worked and slaved beneath the

scorching sun, redoubling every effort as the fine commanding presence

of the young ruler appeared among them. Then the clank of busy

machinery had mingled with the shouted orders of the English

overseers, and Nehal Singh had turned to him with a grave pride and

happiness.

"See what your people have taught my people," he said. "They have

taught them to seek their bread from the earth and to leave their

dreams. This is only the beginning. The time shall come when they

shall stand shoulder to shoulder with their white brethren!"

How had the over-sanguine prophecy been fulfilled! The native at

Nicholson's side pointed a finger of scorn and anger at the silent,

ruined waste.

"Devil--English devil!" he said laconically, and continued on his way.

Nicholson's lips tightened. His own words came back to him with a new

significance: "In a strange country no one is an exception." This

Travers, this one unscrupulous fortune-hunter, heedless of everything

save his own advancement, had branded them all. He had undone, with

the help of a heedless woman, the work of generations of heroic,

honest labor. Truly the chain of individual responsibility is a long

one!

Nicholson had left Colonel Carmichael's bungalow at twelve o'clock.

The increasing crowd and Stafford's prolonged absence had urged him to

instant and independent action. In the best of cases, he had little

faith in the brother-officer's secret mission. Stafford was not the

man to exert any influence over the native mind. He was the type of

the capable and well-meaning English officer who, excellent leader in

his own country, is of small use when face to face with Indian

problems of character and prejudice. Nicholson had judged himself the

better advocate, and having obtained the Colonel's reluctant

permission, he had at once started for the royal palace. But his

progress had been painfully slow, and he had made no effort to hurry.

Any sign of anxiety or excitement would have looked like fear to the

suspicious, hate-filled eyes of the men who swarmed about him, and

whatever else happened, they should not see an Englishman afraid. The

knowledge that he rode there alone, the representative of his nation,

added a greater dignity, a greater firmness to his already calm and

upright bearing. It was no new situation for him--it is never an

exceptional situation in a country where Englishmen are always in the

minority--and it inspired him, as it had always done since his

earliest lieutenant days. He knew that as he acted, looked, and spoke,

so would the image of his country be stamped upon the minds of a

hundred thousand and their children's children. There was no vanity,

no self-importance in this conception of his duty. It was a stern,

unbending acceptance of his responsibility; and as in the lonely fort

upon the frontier where he had dominated, unaided, month after month,

over wild, antagonistic races, so now, unarmed and unprotected, he

dominated over the fanatic rabble by the pure force of a complete

personality. He was to all intents and purposes their prisoner, but he

rode there as their conqueror; and that most splendid triumph of all

triumphs--the unseen victory of will over will--filled him with a new

confidence and hope.

Yet it was three o'clock before he reached the palace gates. It seemed

to him that they had deterred his progress for some unknown purpose,

and the thought of those he had left behind caused him profound

uneasiness. Native treachery was proverbial, and no doubt Nehal Singh

felt himself justified in any conduct that seemed wise to him. In any

case, there was no return. The crowd in front of Nicholson sank back

like a receding tide as he rode through the open gates and then closed

in behind, following in one dense stream as he proceeded slowly up the

splendid avenue. He felt now that he was in the hands of destiny.

Through the trees he caught sight of the palace steps where Nehal

Singh had stood the night before. No living soul moved. The whole

world seemed to have concentrated itself behind him, a grim and silent

force which was sweeping him onward--to what end he could not tell.

Suddenly the native who still held his horse's bridle lifted his hand

as he had done before and pointed ahead.

"Look, Sahib!" he cried. "Look!"

Nicholson made no sign. He retained his easy attitude, one hand

loosely holding the reins, the other with the riding-whip resting

negligently on his hip. There was no change in his bronzed face: his

eyes took in the scene which an abrupt turn in the road revealed to

him with a steadfast calm, though his pulses had begun to beat

furiously. It was as though a painter with two strokes of a mighty

brush had smeared the square before the temple with a great moving

stain. Only one narrow white line reached up to the temple doorway. On

either side, right up to the gopuras and stretching far away down the

branching paths, a living mass stood and waited, their faces turned

toward him. Pilgrims they might have been, but he saw in the foremost

row men with their dark hands clasped over the muzzles of their

rifles, and every here and there the sunlight flashed back a

reflection from the cold steel at their sides. They made no sound as

he rode between them; only a soft shuffling behind him told him that

the human wall was closing in. He did not turn. His eyes passed calmly

over the watching faces, and the hands that played at their

dagger-hilts fell away as though the piercing gaze had paralyzed them.

Thus he reached the temple, where he dismounted.

No one had told him, but he well understood that this was his

destination, and with a firm step passed into the inner court. For an

instant the sudden change from brilliant daylight to an almost

complete darkness dazzled him. He saw nothing but a moving shadow

intermingled with points of fire that glowed steadily in two long rows

up to the altar, where fell a single ray of golden sunshine. Helmet in

hand, he moved slowly forward, every nerve strung taut with suspense.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the curious half-light, he saw that the

unreal shadows were men grouped on either side behind rows of

torch-bearers. The red flare fell on their fixed, unmoved faces, and

threw weird shadows backward and forward among the massive pillars

whose capitals faded into the intensified gloom overhead. There was no

other movement, no other sound save Nicholson's own footsteps, which

echoed loud and threatening in that petrified silence. On the altar

itself a Holy Lamp burned steadily, and behind, half obliterated by a

lonely, upright figure, the great three-headed god stretched out

ghost-like arms into the sunshine that descended in a narrow ladder of

pure light to mingle with the altar fire.

Nicholson moved on. At the altar steps he came to a halt and waited.

The figure did not stir nor seem to be aware of his presence. A

torch-bearer knelt on the lower step, and the fiery deflection threw

into plastic relief the set and pitiless features beneath the jeweled

turban. Gone was the old simplicity. The hands that lay clasped one

upon the other on the splendid scimitar were loaded with gems, and

from the turban a single diamond sparkled starlike in the changing

light. A splendid and romantic figure, truly; harmonizing with and

dominating over the mysterious background. But it was not the

splendor, nor even the stern tragedy written on the worn and haggard

face, which caused Nicholson to feel a cold hand grasp at his bold

self-confidence. It was the sudden intuitive realization that here the

battle began. He was no longer the master personality towering over a

hydra-headed multitude. Here it was a man against a man, will against

will, despair against despair.

"Hail, Rajah Sahib!" he said in Hindustani. "Hail!"

His voice had echoed into silence before Nehal Singh moved. Then he

lifted his hand in greeting.

"Hail, Englishman!"

"You know me," Nicholson went on, drawing nearer. "I am Nicholson,

Captain Nicholson of the--Gurkhas."

"I do not know you." There was a pitiless finality in the few words

and in the gesture which accompanied them.

Nicholson lifted his head to the light.

"Nehal Singh, you lie. I was and am your friend."

He heard a stir behind him, and his instinct, doubly sharpened, felt

how a dozen hands had flown to their weapons. Then again there was

silence. His eyes had not flinched in their challenge.

"I have no friends among traitors and cowards."

The insult left Nicholson calm. Something in the tone in which the

words were uttered, something that rang more like a broken-hearted

despair than contempt, touched him profoundly.

"Thou hast the power to say so, Rajah," he answered quietly. "I am

alone and unarmed."

The reproach went home to its mark. He saw the Rajah's hand tighten on

the sword-hilt and a deeper shadow pass over the handsome features.

"Thou art right," Nehal Singh said. "I have misused my power, and that

I will not do. Whilst thou art here thou needst fear neither insult

nor danger."

"I fear neither," was the answer. A bitter, scornful smile lifted the

corners of the set lips.

"So thou sayest." Then, with a gesture of impatience, he went on:

"Thou hast sought me here, and it is well. I also have sought thee,

for I have a message that thou shalt carry from me to thy people. Wilt

thou bear it?"

"Bear it thyself, Rajah, to the people with whom thou hast lived in

honor and friendship."

"In deceit and treachery!" Nehal Singh retorted, frowning. "But enough

of that. Wilt thou bear my message?"

"If it must be--yes."

"It must be. Tell them first that every bond that linked us is broken.

Tell them not to count on what has been. What has been is not

forgotten, but it is written on my heart in fire and blood--it has

crossed out love and respect, pity and mercy."

"Rajah--"

"Hear me to the end, Englishman! I am not here to waste words with

thee--henceforward my acts shall be my words. But thou shalt not go

back and say that it is ambition or a mean revenge which has drawn my

sword from its sheath. It is not that." He paused, and the hand which

he had raised to cut short Nicholson's interruption sank slowly back

upon his sword-hilt. Then he went on, and his low-pitched voice

penetrated into the farthest corner of the silent temple: "Sahib, I

loved thy people. I loved them for their past, for their courage,

their justice, their greatness. In my boy's mind they were the heroes

of the world, and as such I worshiped them. No poison could kill my

love--it seemed a part of me, the innermost part of my soul--and when

for the first time I stood before them, face to face, it was as though

I lived, as though I had awakened from a dream. Be patient,

Englishman, for you of all others must understand that there is for me

no turning back, no yielding. Great love is sister to a greater hate,

respect to scorn. I came among you, inexperienced save in dreams, a

believing boy--fool if you will, whose folly received its punishment.

The outside of the platter was fair enough to have deceived those

wiser than I, Sahib. There were lovely women with the faces of angels,

and tall men, honest-eyed and brave-tongued. But the outside was a

lie--a lie!" He lifted his hand again in a sudden storm of tortured

passion. "The women are wantons--the men tricksters--"

"Rajah!" The stern warning passed, but not unheeded.

"Thou art hurt and stung," Nehal said, in a low, shaken voice. "The

truth wounds thee! For me--it was death." He hesitated again, fighting

for his self-control. "Sahib, great things are expected of a great

people. Others may cheat and swindle, others may lie and blaspheme

with God's holy secrets, others may seek their pleasures in the

earth's mire, but _they_ must stand apart. They must bear forward the

banner of righteousness, or their greatness is no more than an empty

sound--a bubble which the first bold enemy may prick. Perchance I

blinded myself wilfully, perchance I stopped my ears. The platter was

fair to my eyes, the falsehood rang like truth. Now I know. I know

that the past is all that is left you--you are a fair seeming behind

which is decay and corruption. Were I another, I would take my broken

faith to the darkest corner of the jungle and eat out my life in

despair and sorrow. But I have another task before me--my duty to my

people."

"And that duty, Rajah--?"

"A great people must rule mine," was the high answer. "I thought you a

great people, and I used my strength, my wealth and influence to

further your power. But you are not worthy. Who are you that dare to

assume authority over millions--you who can not rule yourselves, you

who idle away your lives in folly and self-seeking? Well may you crown

yourselves with the laurels which your fathers won! You have none of

your own--and see to it that those faded emblems from a high past are

not snatched from your palsied fingers. I at least have flung from me

a yoke which I despise. Parasites shall not feast upon my country!"

A low murmur arose from the serried ranks and grew and deepened as

Nicholson retorted passionately:

"Thou canst not measure thyself against an Empire!"

"Empire against Empire!"

"Marut is no Empire!"

"All India shall answer me!"

At another moment Nicholson might have smiled at so vain a boast, but

it did not seem to him vain as he faced that towering figure. There

was destiny written in the blazing eyes. So might a prophet have

called upon his nation--so might a nation, inspired by an absolute

belief, have answered him as this swaying crowd answered--with wild,

triumphant shouts.

"We follow thee, Anointed One! Lead us, for thou art Vishnu, thou art

God!"

"Thou hearest!" Nehal Singh said, turning to Nicholson.

"I hear," the Englishman answered significantly. "And I know, as thou

knowest, that it is a lie. Thou art not God. Thou art a Christian."

"No longer. How shall I believe in a God whose disciples mock His

commandments?" His voice became inaudible in the suddenly increased

confusion.

The next instant, the torch-bearers, who guarded the open space around

the two men, were thrust violently on one side, and with a wild

scream, which rang high above the uproar, a half-naked figure rushed

up the steps and with outspread arms stood like an evil phantom at

Nehal's side.

"He is dead!" he shrieked. "He is dead! I killed him--my knife it was

that killed him--the son of the Devil Stafford is dead--my enemy is

dead!" He swung around toward the light, his arms still raised and

Nicholson recognized, with a start of repulsion, Behar Singh's

triumphant, distorted features. "Kill!" he shrieked again. "Kill them

all, son--son--of--the--so is my revenge--". The harsh, grating voice

cracked like a steel blade that has been snapped in half. For a

breathing space Behar Singh stood there, drawn to his full height;

then he reeled and rolled with a heavy thud to the lowest step, where

he lay motionless, his grinning face frozen into a look of diabolical

joy. A slow oozing stream of blood crept over the white marble to

Nicholson's feet. The voices died into silence. Nicholson and Nehal

Singh faced each other over the dead body.

"Thou seest," Nehal Singh said. "There is no turning back."

"No, there is no turning back." The Englishman drew himself upright.

The light of unchangeable resolution illuminated his face and made

him, unarmed and dressed in the rigid simplicity of his uniform, a

fine and impressive contrast to the brilliant bearing of his opponent.

"Not that"--pointing to Behar Singh and speaking in clear, energetic

English--"not that has made retreat impossible. It was already

impossible before. Nehal Singh, I came here to plead with you. I

respected you and pitied you too much to allow you to bring disaster

upon yourself without an effort to save you. You say you came among us

inexperienced save in dreams. It is true. Only a dreamer could have

hoped to find perfection. We are a great people, Rajah; we have always

been great, and we shall always be.

"And if there be corruption among us, it shall be weeded out. In times

of peace, vice and folly grow fast. Scoundrels, idlers, boasters and

fools grow side by side with prosperity; they are the weeds which

spring up on an over-cultivated soil. But war is the uprooting time of

corruption, it is the harvest-time of what is best and noblest in a

people. And that time has come. You, like your father, have learned to

despise and hate us. Perhaps you are right. You have mingled with the

scum which rises to the surface of still waters. The scum shall be

cleared away, and if it costs us the lives of our greatest, it will

not be at too high a price. We as well as you need the bitter lesson

which only disaster can teach us. We shall see our weakness face to

face, we shall root out our weeds and start afresh. You and the whole

world shall see that the soil is still rich with honor."

A change so rapid that it was scarcely noticeable passed over the

Hindu's face. It would have been a flash of hope but for the

contradiction of the scornfully curved lips.

"My belief is dead, Sahib."

"It must live again."

"Would to God that were possible!" Suddenly he leaned forward and

spoke hurriedly and in English. "Captain Nicholson, there shall be no

treachery. This is not a mutiny as in the past--it is war. And war is

between men. See that--your women are brought into safety. I give you

till midnight."

"They can not go alone."

Nehal Singh laughed sneeringly.

"It is not your lives that I seek. Go with your women. No harm shall

be done you. Make good your escape, for I swear that after midnight I

shall lead my people against their enemies, and he who falls into

their hands need not hope for mercy."

"And I also swear an oath, Rajah Nehal Singh! Not one of us will leave

Marut. The men will remain at their posts, and the women will stand by

them."

"You are throwing away your lives."

"They will not be thrown away. They will prove at least that I have

not boasted."

For an instant the two men watched each other in momentous silence, as

two wrestlers each seeking to measure the other's strength. Then Nehal

Singh raised his hand in dismissal.

"It is well, Englishman. If you have not indeed boasted, we shall meet

again."

"We shall meet again, Rajah Sahib."

Nicholson swung round on his heel. The crowd behind him fell back, and

with a rapid step, neither glancing to the right nor left, he strode

out of the temple into the fading sunshine. His horse was still held

in waiting, and he mounted instantly. Erect in his saddle, he faced

the frowning multitude, then rode forward, as he had come, without

haste, holding their passions in check by his own high, fearless

bearing.

The highroad was empty as he passed through the gates. The enemy lay

behind. He set spurs to his horse and galloped headlong toward Marut.

CHAPTER VIII

FACE TO FACE

Mrs. Carmichael turned up the light with a steady hand. Her gaunt,

harsh features were expressionless.

"Well, what news, Captain Nicholson?" she said. "You can say it

outright. I am not afraid." She turned as she spoke and looked around

her. "Are your nerves strong enough, Mrs. Berry? If not, pull yourself

together. We can only die once, and there's nothing to whimper about."

Mrs. Berry, who sat cowering in the corner of the sofa, lifted her

grey face. The clumsy lips tried to move, but no sound came forth

except an inarticulate murmur. Mrs. Carmichael shrugged her shoulders

as one does at an irresponsible child. "Well?" she repeated.

Nicholson came farther into the room, so that he stood within the

circle of lamp-light. In a rapid glance he had taken in the occupants,

and their attitudes were to him what symptoms are to a quick-sighted

doctor. Mrs. Cary sat in an arm-chair, bolt upright, her hands clasped

before her, her small eyes fixed straight ahead. Beatrice stood at her

side, almost in an attitude of protection, pale, but otherwise calm

and apparently indifferent. As he had entered, Lois had been preparing

some food at a side table. She now came closer, and her dark, serious

eyes rested penetratingly on his face, so that he felt that, even if

he had thought of deceiving them as to the true state of affairs, it

would have been in vain as far as she was concerned. As for Mrs.

Carmichael, she stood in her favorite position--her arms akimbo, her

chin tilted at an angle which lent her whole expression something

bulldog and defiant. The atmosphere of danger with which the little

drawing-room was filled acted differently upon each temperament, but

upon this typical soldier's wife the effect was to arouse in her all

the primitive passions, the fighting instinct, the love of struggle

against heavy odds.

"Come!" she exclaimed, as Nicholson still remained silent. "Do you

think, because one or two of us are a bit 'nervy', that we are really

afraid? Not in the least. For my part, if I've got to die, I shall

take good care that one or two of those black heathen come with me!"

She flung open a drawer, and, taking out a revolver, thumped it

energetically upon the table. "Now then, Captain!"

"My dear lady, I never doubted your courage," Nicholson answered, "and

my news is not so hopeless as you suppose. I spoke with Nehal Singh."

He saw Beatrice start and glance in his direction with an expression

of sudden suspense in her fine eyes. "What he said left me no option.

There could be no idea of coming to terms. At the same time it seems

that he has no desire for a general massacre. His sole ambition is to

drive us out of the country. He has given us till midnight to

escape--those who want to."

"Does he think we are going to be got rid of as easily as that?" Mrs.

Carmichael broke in. "Do you think that I have forgotten those months

when George was fighting around Marut? Do you think I have forgotten

all the fine fellows that laid down their lives to take the place and

put an end to the disgrace of being held at bay by a horde of heathen?

And now we are to run away like sheep? Not if George listens to me!"

"You need have no fear," Nicholson answered. "Not a man of us is going

to leave Marut alive. But you ladies--"

"Well, what about us 'ladies'?" in a tone as though the description

had been an insult.

"I have just told you--Nehal Singh gives you till midnight to get

away."

Mrs. Carmichael snapped her lips together in a straight,

uncompromising line.

"Very much obliged to His Highness, I'm sure, but I stay with the

regiment," she said.

Nicholson could not repress a smile at this description of her

husband, but there was something more than amusement in his

brightening eyes.