“Perhaps,” Ameera would say, “I did not take sufficient heed. Did I, or did I not? The sun on the roof that day when he played so long alone and I was—_ahi!_ braiding my hair—it may be that the sun then bred the fever. If I had warned him from the sun he might have lived. But, oh my life, say that I am guiltless! Thou knowest that I loved him as I love thee. Say that there is no blame on me, or I shall die—I shall die!” “There is no blame,—before God, none. It was written and how could we do aught to save? What has been, has been. Let it go, beloved.” “He was all my heart to me. How can I let the thought go when my arm tells me every night that he is not here? _Ahi! Ahi!_ O Tota, come back to me—come back again, and let us be all together as it was before!” “Peace, peace! For thine own sake, and for mine also, if thou lovest me—rest.” “By this I know thou dost not care; and how shouldst thou? The white men have hearts of stone and souls of iron. Oh, that I had married a man of mine own people—though he beat me—and had never eaten the bread of an alien!” “Am I an alien—mother of my son?” “What else—Sahib?... Oh, forgive me—forgive! The death has driven me mad. Thou art the life of my heart, and the light of my eyes, and the breath of my life, and—and I have put thee from me, though it was but for a moment. If thou goest away to whom shall I look for help? Do not be angry. Indeed, it was the pain that spoke and not thy slave.” “I know, I know. We be two who were three. The greater need therefore that we should be one.” They were sitting on the roof as of custom. The night was a warm one in early spring, and sheet-lightning was dancing on the horizon to a broken tune played by far-off thunder. Ameera settled herself in Holden’s arms. “The dry earth is lowing like a cow for the rain, and I—I am afraid. It was not like this when we counted the stars. But thou lovest me as much as before, though a bond is taken away? Answer!” “I love more because a new bond has come out of the sorrow that we have eaten together, and that thou knowest.” “Yea, I knew,” said Ameera in a very small whisper. “But it is good to hear thee say so, my life, who art so strong to help. I will be a child no more, but a woman and an aid to thee. Listen! Give me my _sitar_ and I will sing bravely.” She took the light silver-studded _sitar_ and began a song of the great hero Rajah Rasalu. The hand failed on the strings, the tune halted, checked, and at a low note turned off to the poor little nursery-rhyme about the wicked crow— And the wild plums grow in the jungle, only a penny a pound. Only a penny a pound, _baba_—only....