“My lord is pleased to jest,” said Ismail Bakhsh, reprovingly, as he directed the closing of the gate. The processionists outside had turned back, and were marching homewards amid a fresh outburst of minstrelsy, with the man who had accompanied Stratford at their head. No one thought of asking who he was, nor, indeed, of paying the slightest attention to affairs outside, as Stratford was assisted, quite unnecessarily, to dismount, and escorted through the archway into the inner court. But he was not to arrive altogether unheralded. Brought to his senses by Stratford’s commonplace greeting, Fitz had dashed across the court and up to the terrace, the only man who remembered in the excitement of the moment that the joyful news ought not to be allowed to burst suddenly upon the ladies. The fresh hope in his voice--a hope to which they had been strangers for what seemed interminable hours--roused them from their lethargy of grief, and they came out into the verandah with tear-stained faces and ruffled hair, both looking as though they had cried until they could cry no more. “Good news, Lady Haigh!” panted Fitz. “Miss Keeling, they haven’t murdered him after all. He is not a bit hurt. He will be here in a minute. He’s here now!” This method of breaking the news, though strictly gradual, could scarcely be called gentle, and Lady Haigh and Georgia stood staring at Fitz without understanding him in the least. Seeing this, he tried a new plan, the first that recommended itself to his excited mind. “Aren’t you going to put on your best things to greet the hero in, Miss Keeling? He’s dressed up to the eyes himself. You never saw such a get-up--most awfully swagger. You will never be able to keep him in countenance.” “Oh, you absurd boy!” cried Georgia, and she sat down at the top of the steps and laughed wildly. “Fetch me a jug of water, Mr Anstruther,” said Lady Haigh, sternly. “You are getting into a way of going into hysterics, Georgia, and I mean to break you of it. This is the second time I have caught you at it since we came to Kubbet-ul-Haj, and it’s not professional.” “Professional?” echoed Georgia, beginning to laugh again; “it is the circumstances that are unprofessional, not I. Besides, I am not in the least hysterical. Thank you--a little water--please--Mr Anstruther.”