rutable smile. "Know, then, that
men have cheerfully risked hell for a woman's favours. They have broken
every law for the transcendent bliss of lovers' kisses!--Anyhow, that's
not the story.

"To proceed: Poor old Ramjitsu was ready to dare or die for his Love, as
many another man has been since the world began, and will continue to be
while the world lasts. Every night, when darkness covered the land, and
the people within and without the palace slept, Ramjitsu Singh would
climb the wall by means of a stout bamboo, and clinging to the sill,
would wait for the gods to grant him the opportunity to plead his love.

"At last, one night, attracted by the silvery radiance of the moon, she
came to the grating to gaze without, and hearing a quivering sigh, she
turned and beheld her gallant lover. He looked like a god himself in the
bright moonlight, and the words of his mouth, uttered with breathless
passion, held her spellbound. With her flower-face pressed to the bars
she received his caresses."

"Oh, poor little thing!" cried Joyce, her breath hurried with sympathy.
"Did she love him, too?"

"She must have, in that moment, for nature at such times speaks loudly
to youth. Listening to his impassioned vows, she, who was of a different
religion, as apart from his as the East is from the West, was willing to
place her destiny in his hands. Human nature, you will see, is stronger
than caste or creed, and tradition is brought to naught by romance and
passion.

"One night, when all seemingly slept, Ramjitsu, who had from time to
time cautiously loosened the iron bars in their sockets, removed them
altogether and received in his arms the form he coveted. Conceive that
thrilling moment of ecstasy! Suddenly, however, a lightning stroke from
a sword descended upon the faithless one from within, and she was slain
in her lover's arms. The weight of her falling body, thus violently
flung forward, unbalanced the Rajput whose foothold at the best was
precarious, and together they were hurled to the paved court below,
Ramjitsu breaking his neck in the fall.

"So ended the love story of the Palace--a tragedy which has remained an
everlasting tribute to love, and serves as an example to the Indians of
a just vengeance on the unfaithful. The spies of the Nawab had betrayed
the young wife and her lover, and the husband had punished them both
with death."

"Just vengeance!" repeated Joyce scornfully. "A brutal murder, I call
it."

"T