Ranjab crawled to his side, his eyes covered with one arm, the other extended. Blindly the master felt for the pistol, not once removing his eyes from the pallid figure against the table. His fingers closed upon the weapon. Then the Hindu looked up, warned by the strange voice that spoke to him from the mind of his master. He saw the arm slowly extend itself with a sinister hand directed straight at the figure of the woman. This time Brood was making sure of his aim, so sure that the lithe Hindu had time to spring to his feet weapon. “Master! Master!” he cried out. Brood turned to look at his man in sheer bewilderment. What could all this mean? What was the matter with the fellow? “Down, Ranjab!” he commanded in a low, cautious tone, as he would have used in speaking to a dog when the game was run to earth. “There is but one bullet left, _sahib!_” cried the man. “Only one is required,” said the master hazily. “You have killed your son. This bullet is for yourself.” “Yes! But--but see! She lives! She------” The Hindu struck his own breast significantly. “Thy faithful servant remains, _sahib_. Die, if thou wilt, but leave her to Ranjab. There is but one bullet left. It is for you. You must not be here to witness the death Ranjab, thy servant, shall inflict upon her. Shoot thyself now, if so be it, but spare thyself the sight of------” He did not finish the sentence, but his strong, bony fingers went through the motion that told a more horrible story than words could have expressed. There was no mistaking his meaning. He had elected himself her executioner. A ghastly look of comprehension flitted across Brood's face. For a second his mind slipped from one dread to another more appalling. He knew this man of his. He remembered the story of another killing in the hills of India. His gaze went from the brown fanatic's face to the white, tender, lovely throat of the woman, and a hoarse gasp broke from his lips. “No! No! Not that!” he cried, and as the words rang out Yvonne removed her horrified gaze from the blot of red and fixed it upon the face of her husband. She straightened up slowly and her arms fell limply to her sides. “It was meant for me. Shoot, James!” she said, almost in a whisper. The Hindu's grasp tightened at the convulsive movement of his master's hand. His fingers were like steel bands. “Shoot!” she repeated, raising her voice. “Save yourself, for if he is dead I shall kill you with my own hands! This is your chance--shoot!” Brood's fingers relaxed their grip on the revolver. A fierce, wild hope took all the strength out of his body; he grew faint with it. “He--he can't be dead! I have not killed him. He shall not die, he shall not!”