Honor hastened to undress and get into bed as noiselessly as possible. She was tired, she had been in the open air all day, and presently she fell sound, sound asleep. From this sleep, she was unexpectedly awoke by a light, and a feeling that some one was bending over her. In a second she realized that a stranger, a woman, was standing beside her bed, who stammered in a curiously deliberate whisper, “Oh, I beg your pardon!” “Then,” said the girl, instantly sitting up and rubbing her eyes, “you are English?” It was one of her wildest shots. She had been dreaming of a begum, with rings in her nose; the woman beside her made no other reply than by bursting into loud hysterical tears, suddenly kneeling down beside the bed and burying her face in her hands. “Oh, tell me,” said the girl, laying an impulsive grasp on her heaving shoulder. “What is your trouble?” “Great, great--trouble--such--as you have never dreamt of,” gasped the figure. “I was sitting in the wood, and I heard you play. When you played an air I have not heard for more than thirty years, something in my heart melted. I felt that I _must_ see you--for though I had never seen you face to face, I loved you! I asked you to share my room, that I might gaze at you secretly, and carry away the remembrance of your features in my heart--but,” now raising her head and looking piteously at Honor, “you awoke and discovered me----” She was an old woman, to Honor’s surprise--at least her hair was snow white, her eyes black, and keen as a falcon’s. Her face was thin and haggard, her features were worn, but they were perfect in form and outline. This white-haired woman, kneeling beside Honor, and who was kissing her hands with hasty feverish kisses, must once have been extraordinarily handsome--nay, she was handsome _now_. “I watched you asleep,” she continued, speaking in a sort of husky whisper. “I have not looked on the face of an innocent English girl for thirty-five years. I was once like you. Your music softened my stony heart, and I felt that I must see you--ay, and perhaps speak to you, once--dear God, before I die!” “But what is your trouble?” urged Honor, squeezing the thin hand which held hers. “What has happened--who are you?” “Ay--who am I?--that is the question--a question that will never be answered. For its own works lieth every soul in pledge--my soul is pledged to silence. You have heard,” dropping her voice to a whisper that seemed to chill like an icy blast, “of--the--mutiny--ladies?” “Yes, poor souls; and proud I am of my countrywomen.” “I doubt--if you would be proud of _me_. You speak of those who stood up--ay, as I have seen them--and offered themselves to the sword--those who were butchered and slaughtered like oxen. I speak of--of--of--_others_--how can I tell this child?--who were carried away and lost for ever--in native life. I,” looking steadily into the girl’s eyes, “I am one of those. Lost honour--lost life--lost soul! God help me!”