y hand.

"Whatever you think you know, for God's sake don't put it into words.
I'm bound to go through with this, Paul, in the only way that seems
right to me. Don't make it harder than it is already. Besides," he
added, with a brisk change of tone, "this is modern history! We're
pledged to old times to-night."

Evelyn's fantastic French clock struck three, in silver tones, before
the two men parted.

"It's an ill wind that blows no good, after all!" Desmond remarked, as
he stood in a wide splash of moonlight on the verandah steps. "I feel
ten years younger since the morning. Come again soon, dear old man;
it's always good to see you."

And Paul Wyndham, riding homeward under the myriad lamps of heaven,
thanked God, in his simple devout fashion, for the courage and
constancy of his friend's heart.

CHAPTER XV.

GOOD ENOUGH, ISN'T IT?

"One crowded hour of glorious life."
--SCOTT.

The dusty parade-ground of Mian Mir, Lahore's military cantonment,
vibrated from end to end with a rising tide of excitement.

On all sides of the huge square eight thousand spectators, of every
rank and race and colour, were wedged into a compact mass forty or
fifty deep: while in the central space, eight ponies scampered,
scuffled, and skidded in the wake of a bamboo-root polo-ball; theirs
hoofs rattling like hailstones on the hard ground.

And close about them--as close as boundary flags and distracted native
policemen would permit--pressed that solid wall of onlookers--soldiers,
British and native, from thirty regiments at least; officers, in
uniform and out of it; ponies and players of defeated teams, manfully
resigned to the "fortune o' war," and not forgetful of the obvious
fluke by which their late opponents had scored the game; official
dignitaries, laying aside dignity for the occasion; drags, phaetons,
landaus, and dog-carts, gay as a summer parterre in a wind, with the
restless parasols and bonnets of half the women in the Punjab; scores
and scores of _saises_, betting freely on the match, arguing,
shouting, or shampooing the legs of ponies, whose turn was yet to
come; and through all the confused hubbub of laughter, cheering, and
mercifully incoherent profanity, a British infantry band hammering out
with insular assurance, "We'll fight and we'll conquer again and
again."

It was the last day of the old year--a brilliant Punjab December
day--and the last "chukker" of the f