ve to
interfere. If he kills us so much the better, for that would mean swift
vengeance and a British occupation. That would stop suttee for all time,
and we would have given our lives for something worth while. As we are,
we cannot communicate with our government, and Jaimihr thinks he has us
in his grasp. Let him think it! Let him go ahead! Sooner or later the
government must find out that we are missing Then--!" Her eyes blazed at
the thought of what would happen then.

Her father looked at her for about a minute, sadness and pride in her
fighting in him for the mastery. Then he rose and crossed the little
space between them.

"Lassie!" he said. "Lassie!"

She took his hand--the one little touch of human sentiment lacking to
disturb his emotional balance. The Scots will talk readily enough of
sorrow, but at showing it they are a grudging race of men. Unless a
Scotsman thinks he can gain something for his cause by showing what
emotion racks him, he will swallow down the choking flood of grief, and
keep a straight face to the world and his own as well. Duncan McClean
turned from her--drew his hand away--and walked to open the slit
shutters. A moment later he came back, once more master of himself.

"As things are, dear," he said gently, "how would it be possible for us
to get away?"

"'We canna gang awa'!" she quoted, with a smile.

"NO, lassie. We must stay here and be brave. This matter is not in our
hands. We must wait, and watch, and see. If opportunity should come
to us to make our escape, we will seize it. Should it not come--should
Jaimihr, or some other of them, make occasion to molest us--it may
be--it might be that--surely the day of martyrs is not past--it might
be that--well, well, in either case we will eventually win. Should they
kill us, the government must send here to avenge us; should we get away,
surely our report will be listened to. A month or two--perhaps only a
week or two--even a day or two, who knows?--and the last suttee will
have been performed!"

He stood and stroked her head--then stooped and kissed it--an unusual
betrayal of emotion from him.

"Ye're a brave lassie," he said, leaving the room hurriedly, to escape
the shame of letting her see tears welling from his eyes--salt tears
that scalded as they broke their hot-wind-wearied bounds.

Five minutes later she arose, dry-eyed, and went to stand in the
doorway, where an eddy or two of lukewarm evening breeze might possibly
be s