ts
she opened them to the Indian Queen, and speechlessly the two clung
together. For a while neither spoke.

"My sister!" said Maya the Queen. And again, "O great of heart!"

She laid her cheek against Sundari's, and a wave of solemn joy seemed to
break in her soul and flood it with life and light.

"Had I known sooner!" she said. "For now the night draws on."

"What is time?" answered the Rajput woman. "We stand before the Lords of
Life and Death. The life you gave was yours, and I am unworthy to kiss
the feet of the Queen. Our lord will return and his son is saved. The
House can be rebuilt. My son and I were waifs washed up from the sea.
Another wave washes us back to nothingness. Tell him my story and he
will loathe me."

"My lips are shut," said the Queen. "Should I betray my sister's honour?
When he speaks of the noble women of old, your name will be among them.
What matters which of us he loves and remembers? Your soul and mine have
seen the same thing, and we are one. But I--what have I to do with life?
The ship and the bed of the conqueror await us. Should we await them, my
sister?"

The bright tears glittered in the eyes of Sundari at the tender name and
the love in the face of the Queen. At last she accepted it.

"My sister, no," she said, and drew from her bosom the dagger of Maya,
with the man's blood rusted upon it. "Here is the way. I have kept this
dagger in token of my debt. Nightly have I kissed it, swearing that,
when the time came, I would repay my debt to the great Queen. Shall I go
first or follow, my sister?"

Her voice lingered on the word. It was precious to her. It was like
clear water, laying away the stain of the shameful years.

"Your arm is strong," answered the Queen. "I go first. Because the
King's son is safe, I bless you. For your love of the King, I love you.
And here, standing on the verge of life, I testify that the words of the
Blessed One are truth--that love is All; that hatred is Nothing."

She bared the breast that this woman had made desolate--that, with the
love of this woman, was desolate ho longer, and, stooping, laid her hand
on the brow of Mindon. Once more they embraced, and then, strong and
true, and with the Rajput passion behind the blow, the stroke fell and
Sundari had given her sister the crowning mercy of deliverance. She
laid the body beside her own son, composing the stately limbs, the quiet
eyelids, the black lengths of hair into majesty. So, she though