"When she comes to consciousness, will she——" "Ah," interrupted the doctor, "who knows? We may have brain trouble—an illness we will surely have." Then Harry English, who had so confidently said she would not die, looked at the other mutely inquiring yet further. "Ah, my dear sir," said the Frenchman in his quick apprehension, and shrugged his shoulder. Then he added, compassionately, turning his head towards the bed: "She is young." Harry English closed the door and sat down in the dark passage, cross-legged after the habit that had grown second nature, and there remained. Waiting. Suddenly he rose to his feet again; he had heard the handle of the door click. M. Châtelard stood on the threshold. "The Indian woman," he whispered, "she makes a noise. She must go." Jani, crouching in a hidden corner within, had set up a moaning. The sound of her wail caught Harry English’s ear: a creeping chill passed over him; that Eastern lament that had nothing human in its note, but was as the despair of the animal that mourns without understanding, how familiar it was to his ear! So did the women there, over seas, wail only over death. He, who had held himself in such strength hitherto, was shaken to his soul. He could not form the words that rose to his lips. "You know how to deal with these persons," pursued the Frenchman, absorbed in his thoughts, and in the dusk unable to read the other’s countenance, "I beg you to remove her at once. But, _chut_, _chut_, attention, please, not to disturb my patient!" English drew his breath sharply. Had he been of those who weep, he might have burst into tears then. It is the instant of relief that catches the strong-fighting soul unawares. He clenched his hands till the nails ran into the palm, and followed the doctor on noiseless feet into the room. One glance at the bed! It was all in shadow; but even in the deliberate dimness there was evidence that a practised hand had already been at work. He could see that his wife had been settled among her pillows with care. The white of a bandage lay across her brow. A screen was set between the bed and the banked-up fire. Old Mary was seated in a high chair, within the glow, composed and watchful, the very picture of what a nurse should be. The light of the shaded candle illumined but one thing—the white hand that hung slightly over the edge of the bed; it scintillated back from the gems of the ring that guarded the narrow wedding circlet. His rings! M. Châtelard pulled him by the sleeve. Harry English turned sharply. He had told Sir Arthur "that his place was not here," and must now realise in his turn that neither was his place here. There was bitterness and anger in his eyes as he bent over the ayah.