He recalled the threat, or proposal he had overheard, to sell the European ladies as slaves in Toorkistan, or to exchange them for horses;--Rose Trecarrel sent to Toorkistan! He felt that he could cheerfully shed his heart's blood in defence of her--of Mabel and the old General too; that he could die for them--for her more than all; and all that a young, loving and enthusiastic spirit could suggest were in his head and heart, with a hope that his narrow escape overnight would invest him with additional interest in her estimation. He entered the house with somewhat of the confidence felt only by a privileged dangler, and by chance on this occasion his arrival was not proclaimed by a stroke on the gong. He gave his name to a native servant of the Trecarrels, who ushered him into the drawing-room, announcing his presence as "Deveroo Sahib," but in a tone so low that it seemed to be unheard by those who were there, and for a full minute Denzil stood irresolute and did not advance. The apartment was spacious, and at a remote end of it, almost out on the verandah, in fact, were Bob Waller and Mabel Trecarrel, very much occupied with each other. She was seated in an easy chair looking up at him, with an arch yet confident expression. They were conversing in whispers, while Waller leaned over her, stooping his tall and handsome figure so much that his face was close to hers--so close indeed that his long curly whisker, the left one, was caught by her right-ear earing, from which it was with difficulty extricated. "Do you know what I've been thinking, Mabel?" asked Waller, at that juncture. "How should I guess?" "Try." "What is it?" "How have I ever been able to get on for those seven-and-twenty years--I am just twenty-seven--without you!" Denzil might have laughed at all this but for the other two who made up a quartette. Nearer him in the foreground sat Rose, the glory of the morning sun streaming full upon her, and imparting fresh radiance to her beauty. Her rich auburn hair glittered in the sheen, half like gold and half like dusky bronze, while her smiling eyes were full of liquid light as she looked upward from a book of coloured prints which lay open on her knee, to the face of a staff officer who hung somewhat familiarly over her. His face was fine, well browned by the sun, and closely shaven, all save a smart black mustache; his eyes were soft in expression, and his whole air was decidedly distinguished. "Now, who the deuce is this fellow? who seems such an _ami de la maison_--in staff uniform, too--never saw his face before," were the surmises that flashed on Denzil's mind. "And what is all this Miss Trecarrel has told me?" asked the stranger, in a low voice. "A foolish flirtation with a boy," replied Rose, laughing. "It was all a joke. Be assured that he never asked me to favour him with my agreeable society for the term of his natural life." "By Jove! I should think not," was the rather dubious response of the visitor.