Fuzzil stared, swallowed, gasped. The young man’s resolute air and stern eye were altogether too much for him, and he obediently slunk off, without further dispute. Major Jervis did not appear the next morning, and his son mounted his pony and went for a long ride. Where he went he but vaguely remembered; his thoughts were far too preoccupied to note his surroundings. There was no doubt that his father’s mind was affected; no doubt this was attributable to the fall over the khud, and injury to his head. The vital question remained to be decided, was he, Mark Jervis, to sacrifice his youth to filial duty?--one would soon grow old in the Yellow Kothi--to renounce friends, fortune, sweetheart, to lead a semi-savage existence, entirely cut off from what is called Life. But, on the other hand, if he set his pony’s head for Shirani, and returned to Honor, to all the delights of the world, would not the recollection of the miserable father he had abandoned to strangers poison every pleasure, and force itself into every joy? “But to live there”--and he drew rein and gazed down upon the square house, standing out distinctly against a blue, purplish background--“will be,” he exclaimed aloud, “a living death. Like a vain young fool, I wanted a chance to do something--some special task, some heroic deed, that would set me apart from other men; but, God knows, I never thought of _this_!” It was late in the afternoon when he rode up to the verandah, and was amazed to meet a coolie leading away a steaming-hot hill pony--a hired animal--and more surprised still to discover a visitor comfortably established in a long chair, with his fat legs elevated above his head, enjoying a peg and a cheroot. Evidently there was no occasion to ask him to make himself at home! The stranger slowly put down his feet and stood on them, when he first caught sight of Mark. After staring hard for a few seconds, he said, with an air of great affability, “I am Fernandez Cardozo, and you are Major Jervis’s son--my cousin.” “I am Major Jervis’s son,” assented the young man, stiffly; and he, in turn, critically surveyed his father’s heir. He was low-sized, fleshy, and swarthy, about forty years of age; he had a closely cropped bullet head, sprinkled with grey hairs, a round good-natured face, a pair of merry black eyes, and a large mouthful of flashing white teeth. An Eurasian, and possibly not a bad sort of fellow, was Mark’s verdict. The other was thinking, “What a fine young man! Quite tip-top. How strange it seemed that he should be the son of the poor, crazy old major inside.” And his eyes travelled over his smart country-bred pony, his English saddlery, his well-cut boots and clothes. “Yes--you are his son,” he said at last, “but I am his _heir_. We are, son and heir,” and he laughed--an oily laugh. “You are heir of course to Mrs. Cardozo--I mean Mrs. Jervis’s fortune. Won’t you sit down?” “You have not been long here, have you?” now reseating himself.