Scarcely, however, had the old merchant, with a low bow, closed the door of his apartments, when a little lamp, borne by a figure in white, cast a feeble light upon the walls above, which shifted rapidly downwards until it was flashed in George’s eyes by the bearer, who proved to be no other than Nouna’s Indian servant Sundran. The young man started when he saw the bronze-coloured face peering up into his. It was a most unprepossessing countenance, bearing the impress of mean passions and low cunning, which not even the brown dog’s eyes, full of affection and a certain sagacity, could redeem. The woman might have been of any age between thirty-five and fifty, though the supple agility of her movements seemed to prove that the wrinkles and lines in her dark face were premature. She looked up into Lauriston’s face with eager anxiety. “Missee, little missee, my mistress, where is she?” she asked in a whisper. “She’s all right, quite safe; I came to tell Mrs. Ellis so.” “But me want to see her, she not sleep till I come to her and sing and tell her the old stories. Take me to her, sahib, take me, and Sundran love you very dear.” “I can’t do that, Sundran; she is a long way from here. But she is quite safe. I am going to marry her, so you may be quite sure she is safe. Mrs. Ellis trusts me, so you can.” “But, sahib, Missee Ellis not know her so long as me. I come with her from her country with the Mammee Countess, her mother. She always have me, she love her old nurse. Sahib, take me to her.” But George was looking upon the woman with more and more distaste. Hers was the pernicious influence which, working by the spells of early association, of wild fable, of romantic devotion, had filled Nouna’s young mind with its prejudices, had excited her imagination by its dangerous pictures, and had made her blind and deaf to all the better influences around her. “I cannot indeed,” he said gravely. “I am going straight back to my own rooms now. It would take me another hour to drive you first to the house where she is staying, and by that time your mistress would be fast asleep.” The woman noticed the increased coldness of his tone, and recognised the uselessness of further entreaty. She tried another tack. “Sahib,” she whispered lower than ever, in a wheedling tone, with a glance all round the hall and a particularly careful scrutiny, by the light of the lamp, of the chinks of the doors, “if you take me to Missee Nuna, if you tell me where she is, I take you to Sahib Rahas, I tell you where he is.”