th pain, his brain verging on delirium; and before evening it was
clear that rheumatic fever had him in its relentless grip.

The Gurkhas and Zyarulla were in despair. Chundra Sen, goaded by
responsibility for the safety of his officer, set out, straightway, by
double marches for Srinagar, determined to cover the distance in ten
days; while the Pathan, commanding a _charpoy_[1] from the headman of
the village, remained to exorcise the 'fever devil' with the rude skill
and limitless patience of his kind.

But he reaped small reward for his pains. Racked with rheumatism and
burnt up with fever, Lenox had almost reached the end of his tether;
and through the awful hours of delirium, Zyarulla could only crouch,
helpless, by the bedside; listening, listening to the hoarse, hurried
mutterings, of which he could understand nothing beyond the frequent
recurrence of the Mem-sahib's name.

Each day life flickered more uncertainly in the great gaunt frame; and
on the morning when Chundra Sen, with a dapper little doctor, set his
face towards Darkot, Zyarulla, kneeling beside his unheeding master,
bowed his head upon his hands.

"It is the will of God," he muttered. But the formula carried no
conviction to his heart, that whispered rather: "It is the work of
Sheitan, the accursed."

[1] String-bed.

CHAPTER XXXV.

"Why was the pause prolonged, but that singing should issue thence?
Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized!"
--Browning.

Quita Lenox lay back in a long low chair, lost in thought, her hands
clasped behind her head, the folds of her dull-blue tea-gown trailing
on the carpet. A cushion of darker blue threw into stronger relief the
brighter tints of her hair; and at her throat three rough lumps of
Tibetan turquoise--recently sent by Lenox--hung on a fine gold chain.
His last letter, full of the discovery of his Pass, lay open on her
knee,--read and re-read till its contents were stamped upon her brain;
and it seemed to her high time that a fresh one came to take its place.
But the days slipped by--uneventful days, in which the long chair
played a definite part--and no envelope in his hand-writing came to
cheer her.

Yet she was far removed from unhappiness. Her increasing pride in him,
and in his achievement, prevented that. Only there were moments when
the inner vision was too vivid; moments between sleep and waking when
pictures trooped unbidden through the