"I was going," answered the girl, abandoning herself to her dream. Then she began suddenly to tremble, and with knees giving way beneath her, advanced uncertainly towards the door, all her energies bent on reaching safety within. But he, with an outflung gesture of prayer, cried to her, in that low English voice that was so amazing, yet which, in spite of its incongruity, soothed her frantic fear. "In pity, stop one second. Do you hear how she is crying within? Tell me, what is her trouble?" And, as Baby fell from amazement to amazement, as even in dreams one falls, and could find no thought, much less words for answer, he went on in his pleading undertone: "Is the old man not good to her? Oh, do not stop to wonder why I should ask you! Answer me, in the name of God, as one fellow-creature to another: Whom, or what, is she mourning for?" Aspasia saw how, between the sweep of his moustache and the great fans of his beard, the man’s lips quivered as he spoke: she felt his haggard eyes imploring, compelling; and she made answer, as she was bidden, "as one fellow-creature to another," with a solemnity which she herself was scarce aware of: "She is mourning for her dead husband." When she had spoken, Baby had a vision so swift that she had hardly time to seize it, of Muhammed’s eyes lightening upon her with an extraordinary illumination. The next instant he had dropped his lids. Then he turned and, running, left her; and she heard the crazy boards creak, the stairs groan under his flying unshod feet. Utter chaos possessed her thoughts as she turned the handle of the locked door and gently knocked, calling upon Jani; the fantastic terrors of her inexplicable experience, and the sounds of Rosamond’s moans and sobs within driving her to urgency. As still in a sort of nightmare she found herself repeating her own phrase to the Pathan, and an odd speech of her aunt’s, as if in answer to it: "She is mourning for her dead husband.... He is not really dead, Baby...." Here an idea so extraordinary, so utterly impossible, suddenly tapped at her brain that, added to all the rest, a new fear of her own self came upon her. "I think I am going mad, too," said the poor child to herself. "Jani, Jani," she cried louder, "let me in!" And Jani, hearing, did so—this time, it seemed, with alacrity. The candles on Lady Gerardine’s dressing-table had been lit, and the portrait on the panel was in full illumination. Rosamond was crouching in bed, her head on her knees, her hair in long strands about her. She did not move upon Aspasia’s entrance; she did not seem to have heard it. Now and again a moan escaped her. "Why did you not call me?" cried the girl, turning angrily upon Jani. The ayah shook her head, her face was wrinkled into a thousand lines of dismay. She made a helpless gesture with both hands. "Has she been like that all night?" asked Aspasia. "All night," answered Jani, adding apologetically: "quieter now." "Quiet!" echoed Baby.