It was dinner time when John reached the house, and he just had time to wash before the gong sounded. Seated at table he was very quiet during the meal, and when coffee had been served and they had passed out onto the verandah where so many happy evenings had been spent, Dean drew John down into his big wicker chair. "You are very quiet, John--anything the matter?" "No, father--I was only thinking." "What of?" "Oh--of England, and leaving here, and--Ali." The moon had come up over the precipice and flooded the garden in soft light. They could see the river, like a silver shield where it turned in its course. Not a leaf stirred in the garden, but there were sounds floating about the night. From the orchard came the first notes of a bulbul; more distant, they could hear the musical rippling of the water as it sang in and out among the rocks, and further off, subdued, pulsating with mystery, sounded the low droning of a native drum. It rose and died in the night air with its barbaric note insistently calling. Calling what?--they did not know; perhaps it drew towards it the Moslem spirits, as it had drawn them on that night long ago when Timur came near, red with conquest. Dean looked down at the boy sitting quietly by him. The moonlight glinted upon something on John's breast. He slowly drew out the chain with its talisman. "What's this?" he asked, reading the Turkish characters--"Kismet!" "Ali gave it to me for a keepsake--what does Kismet mean, father?" "Destiny--all Moslems believe in it." "Do we?" asked John. Dean paused before replying. "Some of us do, some of us don't," he said quietly. Then there was silence again, save for the drum calling through the night. BOOK II WEST CHAPTER I The guard's whistle sounded shrilly, and in John's ears it seemed to be cutting through his life as he stood on the platform at Sedley and felt his hand held in his father's farewell grasp. The last carriage door had been slammed, the perspiring porters mopped their brows under the hot September sun, the train drew back a little with a hissing of steam and a rasping of brakes, then slowly crawled forward. John ever afterwards carried a distinct impression of his father as he saw him that afternoon leaning out of the carriage window. The tanned face, the clear grey eyes and clean-cut features all stamped themselves upon his memory. The ring in his father's voice as he said--