Honor noticed the absence of her sister’s picture from its usual post of honour--it was nowhere to be seen--the absence of Fairy’s name in conversation, the sudden cessation of all interest in Gerty Hadfield’s movements, and guessed rightly that some one had kindly enlightened her aunt, and that she was in possession of the _other_ reason now. CHAPTER XL. THE NEW WEARER OF THE CORNELIAN RING. Six weeks had crawled by. With all his occupation Mark found time desperately hard to kill; he felt as if he had lived his present life for at least six years. The monsoon had broken, and on some days the torrents compelled him to remain indoors; and whilst sheets of rain and hurricanes of wind swept the valley, an appalling loneliness settled down upon the miserable young man. His father passed many hours in sleep, and he had not a soul with whom to exchange a word. One evening, during a welcome break, he was riding homewards down a steep and slippery path that wound through wet dark pine-woods, when his pony suddenly shied so violently as almost to lose its footing; he had taken fright at an undefined object beside the road, something which at first his rider mistook for a bear, until it emitted a groan of unmistakable human anguish. “What is the matter?” asked Jervis, as he quickly dismounted. “Alas, I have hurt my foot!” replied a female voice in Hindostani. “I fell down--I cannot walk.” Jervis threw the bridle over his arm, lit a match, and, shading it with his hand, saw, huddled up, what appeared to be an old native woman. She explained to him, between groans and gasps, that she had twisted her ankle over a root on the path, and could not move. “Are you far from home?” he inquired. “Three miles.” “In which direction?” “The hill above the old cantonment.” “I know. If you think you can sit on my pony, I will lead him and take you home safely.” “Oh, I am such a coward,” she cried. “Is the pony gentle?” “Yes, he is all right; I will answer for the pony.” “I--and I cannot bear pain. Oh--oh! but I must”--vainly struggling to rise, and sinking down again. She proved a light weight, as Jervis raised her bodily in his arms, and placed her in the saddle. Fortunately the pony, who bore the suggestive name of “Shaitan,” was too much sobered by a long journey to offer any active opposition to carrying a lady. The homeward progress proved exceedingly tedious; the road was bad and nearly pitch dark. The native woman, who appeared to know every yard of the way, directed her companion by a path almost swallowed up in jungle, to a hill behind the old mess-house. Up and up they climbed, till they came to a tiny stone bungalow, with a light in the window. The door was thrown open by another native woman and an old man, whose shrill voluble lamentations were almost deafening. “You had better let me carry you in?” suggested Jervis.