own accord....

In the deep of a gloomy indent, the thought assailed him--"Why do I know
it all so well? Where...? When...?"

An inner flash lit the dim recesses of memory. Of course--it was that
other day of summer, in the far beginning of things; the day of the
Golden Tusks and the gloom and the growling thunder; his legs, as now,
in a fearful hurry of their own accord; and Tara waiting for him--his
High-Tower Princess. With a pang he recalled how she had seemed the
point of safety--because she was never afraid.

No Tara waiting now. No point of safety, except a very prosaic dak
bungalow and good old Azim, who would fuss like the devil if rain came
on and he got a wetting.

Ah--here it was, at last! Buckets of it. Lashing his face, running down
his neck, saturating him below his flapping burberry. Buffeted
mercilessly, he broke into a trot. Thunder and lightning were less
virulent now; and he found himself actually enjoying it all.

Tired----? Not a bit. The miasma of depression seemed blown clean away
by the horseplay of the elements. He had been within an ace of taking
unwarranted liberties with Nature. Now she retaliated by taking
liberties with him; and her buffeting proved a finer restorative than
all the drugs in creation. Electricity, her 'fierce angel of the air,'
set every nerve tingling. A queer sensation: but it was _life_. And he
had been feeling more than half dead....

Azim Khan, however--being innocent of 'nerves'--took quite another view
of the matter.

Arrived at the point of safety, Roy found a log fire burning; and a
brazier alight under a contrivance like a huge cane hen-coop, for drying
his clothes. Vainly protesting, he was made to change every garment; was
installed by the fire, with steaming brandy-and-water at his elbow, and
lemons and sugar--and letters ... quite a little pile of them.

"_Belaiti dak, Hazur_,"[40] Azim Khan superfluously informed him, with
an air of personal pride in the whole _bundobast_--including the timely
arrival of the English mail.

There were parcels also--a biggish one, from his father; another from
Jeffers, obviously a book. And suddenly it dawned on him--this must be
the tenth of June. Yesterday was his twenty-sixth birthday; and he had
never thought of it; never realised the date! But _they_ had thought of
it weeks ahead: while he--graceless and ungrateful--had deemed himself
half forgotten.

He ran the envelopes through his fingers--Tiny, Tara. (His