“Are you permitted to tell me all that he said?” Routledge asked. “Yes. To-night at dusk, Sekar stirred from his meditations and we spoke together long. I told him that you meant my whole race to me; that you were dearer to me than any human being I had ever known. I asked if he would permit you to travel with us a little longer. He shook his head. There is much for you still to do in the world. He said that you would begin to find your work as soon as you reached travelled-lines. I told him that your life was in danger where the English were many; that your life had been attempted in Madras, and that it was a heavy sorrow for me to part with you so soon. I asked him if your work in the world were absolute--if it would not be good for your soul to travel slowly to the Hills, doing what we found to do on the way. Sekar shook his head.... Ah, Routledge, my brother, there is to be another war for you. There will come a day in which you will know a great need for human aid, and it will not be given me to come to you--but another--a woman!” Rawder’s voice trembled. Routledge never forgot the moment. The restless, writhing flame of the candle, straining as if for more vital air; little Rydamphur, out of the ken of the world, and death moving from hut to hut; the still, dreadful Indian night; the ancient mystic, tranced in meditation, so emaciated with years and asceticism that each added breath seemed a dispensation; the white face of Rawder, which had long since been graven with beautiful meanings for his friend; the eyes of Rawder, which had never been defiled by hate or rage or lust, so radiant with sorrow now; and the revelations on Rawder’s lips, which half the human family is still so young as to have called madness. “He is right,” said Routledge. “It is the law. You have naught to do with human attachments on the way to the Hills. And I am to follow the fortunes of another war?” “Such a war as never has been----” “In Asia?” “Yes. In the north--beyond the mountains. He did not say more, but you are soon to know. God pity you, Routledge! How gladly would I take the travail from you! You are to fall--not among the piled dead, not in the thundering centres of battle, but apart.... You are to live. He promised me that you would not die, and that another, a woman, would come to help you. I know you are to live, because it is written that once more in this life I am to take your hand.” “Just once more?” “Yes.” “Did he tell you where?” Rawder bowed his head. His fingers trembled upon his knee. “In the Leper Valley,” he said. “Must you still go to the Leper Valley?” “It is there I am to meet that which you once called ‘The Dweller of the Threshold,’” Rawder said.