Who was this that held them spell-bound? thought his listeners. Not the shattered wreck of the forenoon, but the soldier who had seen much service, who had felt the pulse of events, who had absorbed India through his eyes and ears--_real_ India, during a residence of thirty-five years in that mysterious, intoxicating, gorgeous land! Of frontier skirmishes, kept out of the newspapers, of friendly interchanges between foes in the field, of mysterious disappearances, of men who had laid down their lives for their country--heroes unknown to fame, whose deeds were unrecorded by one line of print, whose shallow graves were marked by rotting crosses on the bleak Afghan frontier. Major Jervis kept his audience enthralled; even Mark’s attention _rarely_ wandered to a coolie who was at the moment running through the wooded hillsides by the light of the cold keen stars, with a letter in his loin-cloth addressed to “Miss Gordon.” It was one o’clock before the party dispersed; and as Major Jervis clapped his brother-in-law on the shoulder, with a hearty good night, he added-- “Who knows, Pollitt, but that I may be persuaded by your eloquence to go home with you, after all?” * * * * * “My father is very ill,” said Mark, as he entered into his uncle’s room at eight o’clock the next morning. “He wants to see you. I have been with him since six o’clock; and, Uncle Dan, I’m afraid that this is the end.” Yes, there was no doubt about that, thought Mr. Pollitt; death was surely written on the countenance that was turned to him. Last night had been the final flicker before the flame of life went out. The invalid was propped up in a chair by a window looking towards the snows; but his face was ghastly, his breathing laboured. “I’m glad you are here, Dan; glad we met once more.” And he made a movement as if he would offer his wasted, helpless-looking hand. “You and Mark wanted me to go home,” murmured the grey lips; “and I am going--sooner than you thought.” He turned his dull eyes and fixed them intently on his son. “God bless you, Mark,” he whispered almost inarticulately. These were his last words. When Mr. Burgess arrived, an hour later, he was dead. “Died of a failure of the heart’s action, brought on by some overpowering excitement;” but, as far as he could judge, “under any circumstances he could not have outlived a week.” Such was the missionary’s verdict. “Ah, sahib!” cried Mahomed, with up-raised hands and eyes, “I knew how it would be; there was the warning, the never-failing warning at twelve o’clock last night--_the voice_.” “What do you mean, Jan Mahomed?” Jervis returned quickly. “The voice of a stranger, sahib, shouting in the yard. He was calling for his horse. He was going a long journey. Surely the Protector of the poor knows the truth of this? It is ever thus before a man’s death--there is an order loudly spoken, ‘Gorah tiar hye!’” (“Bring my horse!”)