as pure as those of a nightingale, broke the
solemn hush of eventide.

Barlow turned his face to where the songster was perched in the top
branches of a wild-fig, and Bootea, said in a low voice: "Sahib, it is
said that the shama is a soul come back to earth to sing of love that
men may not grow harsh."

Soon a silver moon peeped over the walls of the Vindhya hills, and from
the forests above the night wind, waking at the fleeing of the sun,
whispered down through feathered _sal_ trees carrying the scent of
balsam and from a group of _salei_ trees a sweet unguent, the perfume
of the gum which is burnt at the shrines of Hindu gods.

When they had eaten, Barlow said: "I wonder, Gulab, if this is like
_kailas_, the heaven those who have passed through many transitions and
become holy, attain to."

"It is just heaven, my Lord," she replied fervently.

"And to-morrow I will be plodding on through the sands and dust, and
I'll be all alone. But you, little girl, you will be making your peace
with Omkar and dreaming of the greater heaven."

"Yes, it will be that way; the Sahib will not have the tribulation of
protecting Bootea, and she will be in the protection of Omkar."

There was so much of pathetic resignation in the timbre of the girl's
voice, for it was half sigh, that Barlow shivered, as if the chilling
mist of the valley had crept up to the foothills. Why had he not
treated her as an alien, kept all interest in abeyance? His self
recrimination was becoming a disease, an affliction.

He rose, muttering, "Damn! I'm like the young wasters that swarm up to
London from Oxford and get splashed with the girls from the
theatres--that's what I'm like."

As he strode over to where his horse was tethered, munching his ration
of grain, Bootea followed him with her eyes, wondering why he had
broken into English; perhaps he was chanting an evening prayer.

When Barlow came back he fell to wishing that they were at Mandhatta so
that he would start on the rest of his journey in the morning; he
dreaded the long evening with the girl. He could have sat there with
Elizabeth, although their marriage hovered on the horizon, and talked
of trivial things: of sport, of shooting; or damned the Executive
sitting beneath _punkahs_ in offices with windows all closed, far away
in Calcutta. Or could have traversed, mentally, leagues of sea and
rehabilitated past scenes in London. It would be like talking to a
brother officer. Bu